It's Five O'clock Somewhere
by Musical Redhead
Summary: In a battle of wills, does there have to be a loser? The good detective has to decide. He and the reporter are at the top of their games, though they aren't very perceptive. Mystery #4, Final.
1. Back and Forth Again

**Title**: It's Five O'clock Somewhere

**Chapter 1**: Back and Forth Again

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: The fabled fourth mystery is here after all this time [follows Contraband, Libertad, and Ain't Life Grand (and Just Like Anything plus extra scenes on my LJ) for anyone just now joining]. I cannot apologize enough for taking this long in getting the last story to you. I hope you can forgive me. Thank you for giving this series a chance, despite the unorthodox genre. Thank you so much for your patience, and for sticking with me to the end. Let's wrap-wrap-wrap it up.

_I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. –Rita Rudner_

**Back and Forth Again**

Tristan DuGrey stood under the spray of the shower as he lathered himself up with his navy blue loofa. As the soap bubbles ran down his body, he helped himself to the shampoo. He was half way through washing his hair when the shower door opened and his wife slipped in behind him.

"Hey, you already had your shower this morning, you're cutting in on my time," he said.

"I thought you might need some help," Rory Gilmore said. She turned. "But I can go if I'm in your way."

Tristan grabbed her wrist before she could escape. "I do need help."

"You do?" she asked, stopping.

He nodded. "All I can get. And you should stay since you're already wet." He tiled his head down and she lifted her chin to meet him for a very wet kiss. He backed up to pull her under the water to further drench her.

She ran her fingers through his blonde hair and to rinse out the shampoo. Taking advantage of the situation, Tristan closed the small gap between them so their torsos were pressed up together. Without using her loofa, he lathered her up with her mango scented body wash. He pushed her against the back wall, lifting her enough to slid between her legs. Her back was against the wall again when he slid in between her legs. The soap ran down both of them as the temperature grew warmer and his lips found hers again. When he was in position, she moved her hips in rhythm with his, and her head fell back when she finished. He kissed her again and she held onto him for a moment before they parted.

When they caught their breath, Tristan reached for the conditioner to finish his shower. Once his hair was rinsed, he turned off the water and opened the door, grabbing her towel from the rack to wrap around her. He pulled on the ends of the towel so she'd step toward him. She pressed her hands to his slick chest and kissed him again. He was surprised by her willingness to continue, but didn't stop to ask questions. Instead he wrapped his own towel around his waist and followed her out to their bedroom, joining her on their bed. He covered her damp warm body with his own when her phone rang from the nightstand. They both groaned in protest.

She reached over for it and grudgingly answered, "Hello?"

Tristan didn't move from his place on top of her, nibbling on her free earlobe.

"Come on, no, not me," she said. "There has to be someone else who can go."

Sensing the inevitable, Tristan stopped his ministrations and instead snuggled against her as she continued to argue.

"Sick? I was a little under the weather yesterday afternoon, but _I_ powered through. I'm _that_ dedicated to my work. Can't Kyle learn from that and mimic it?" Her nose scrunched up. "Ech, I don't want to know the details." Her head fell back onto the decretive pillow in defeat, groaning again in displeasure. "Fine," she said shortly. Then, "I'm doing it, aren't I? If I'm snippy at the prospect then you'll just have to deal with it." She hung up and exhaled heavily. She lay still for a minute before finally saying, "I have to go. A car was pulled from the Hudson."

"Was someone in it?"

"Yup."

"That's unfortunate."

"Kyle is out sick and Marie is already out covering a big traffic collision on the Brooklyn Bridge." Dryly, she added, "Apparently I'm the only other staff member the _Daily News_ has tonight."

Tristan rolled off her, letting her free to get up. She sighed again and sat, picking up the wet towel to take to the bathroom. She returned and went to her closet, while Tristan dried off and went to his own dresser. He pulled out a pair of boxer shorts and grey sweat pants. On the other side of the room, Rory was pulling on a pair of jeans over thermal underwear, all the while muttering about seniority. As she disappeared into the closet again, Tristan grabbed a t-shirt and tossed it over his shoulder. When Rory came back out, she had on a long sleeved shirt and was pulling a sweater over it. She finished off her outfit with two pairs of thick socks and shoes.

"Ugh, what am I going to do with wet hair? I'm going to catch a cold out there," she complained. "I can't believe Jimmy would risk my health like this, and when we're already a Kyle short."

Tristan ran his fingers forward through his own damp hair and watched sympathetically as his wife went to the bathroom to look for a quick solution. He put on his shirt and a pair of socks.

She returned a couple minutes later, her brown hair in a single braid, and stopped in the doorway. "How do I look?"

"Like the grumpiest reporter I've ever seen," he answered. "I'd give you any information I had just to avoid your simmering wrath."

She nodded curtly. "Just the look I was going for."

He followed her down a hallway, and then down the stairs that wrapped along a back wall of what used to be the guest bedroom. He liked the renovations and remodeling her grandparents had done to the apartment when they got married, but now it was quite a trek just to get from the master bedroom to the kitchen. It used to be a short walk. Now it was more like a day trip.

When they reached the kitchen, she was scowling. Darkly, she commented, "I don't even have time for coffee to get me through this miserable night."

"I'll warm you up when you get back," he offered. Her blue eyes met his, and then moved down to his lips. He was no mind reader, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't have taken much persuasion to get her to hike back up to their bedroom if time wasn't an issue.

Rory licked her lips, and he was sure they'd just reached a connection of telepathic proportions, but she cleared her throat. "I should get going." She went to put on her wool coat that went just past her hips and pulled gloves out of her pockets.

Tristan picked up her scarf and wrapped it around her neck for her. He pulled her sock hat over her head and gave her a kiss. "I think you're good to go."

She sighed, picking up her purse. "Yup. See you later—hopefully. Love you."

"Love you."

"Stupid cop beat," she grumbled as she headed out the door.

Tristan grimaced as he watched her exit. He gave her a couple minutes head start, ensuring she wouldn't reappear looking for a forgotten cell phone or notepad before he went to the kitchen. He went straight to the pantry and found a lone bag of popcorn.

Once his late night snack was ready, he carefully took it out of the microwave and went over to the couch. As per usual during the winter months, they had a fire crackling in the fireplace. Though the holiday was three weeks past, the Christmas tree was still sitting in the corner of the living room, fully decorated and lights twinkling amongst the branches, creating a pleasurable ambiance.

Tristan propped his feet up on the coffee table and pulled the corners of the hot popcorn bag. He'd just turned the television on when his own cell phone started to buzz from the lamp table.

He glanced over and saw the name. "No no no no no no," he whined, reluctantly reaching for the phone. "I don't want to go to the Hudson River," he answered. "It's cold out there."

"How'd you know?" his partner, Mark Stevenson asked.

"Excellent intuition."

"Great, be sure to bring it with you."

He went on to argue, "We aren't on duty."

"No, but we just cleared a case this week, so we're up. See you there."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory paid the cab driver and he thanked her in a language she believed was some form of Slavic before she climbed out of the yellow car. She headed for the police vehicles, their blue and red lights flashing in the darkness. She had to stop at the yellow tape outlining the perimeter when she reached the scene. There were uniformed officers milling about, talking in groups. They were bundled up in heavy coats and black earmuffs, and their breath was visible in the cold. She raised her gloved hand to a couple of them she recognized, but didn't smile. She wasn't in the mood for overly friendly gestures.

Rory inhaled the freezing cold air and could smell snow. It wasn't a skill that came to her naturally, but going outside with her mother on many cold occasions had honed her ability. She hoped Mother Nature had the decency to wait until she was back indoors.

She wistfully thought of the fire going in the living room at home. Having it lit, warming the room was one of her favorite things about winter. While things were icy and miserable outside, she could curl up with a book on the couch. The evening had shown such promise an hour ago.

She returned her attention to the object that had brought her out of her perfect, cozy apartment—a red Dodge Stratus that was dripping icicles. The body wasn't found in one of the seats, Rory easily deduced. There was an arm dangling lifelessly from the place where the left tail light was supposed to be. It looked like a woman's slender arm.

Rory shivered and looked away. It was only partly due to the cold. The sight of the pale arm made her a little queasy. She wondered if she'd have the strength of mind to punch out the tail pipe if she was ever trapped in a car trunk. Then she wondered if anyone had seen the wave for help. If so, help was late to arrive.

All in all, it wasn't a situation Rory hoped to ever be in. She looked back at the car and saw the two detectives. She knit her brows. "How did he do that?" she asked no one. It was her husband and his partner. She glanced behind her to the police cars that lined the streets, looking to see if she passed his black Camaro without noticing on her walk from the cab. Not seeing it, but sure it was there somewhere, she turned back. He must have changed in a phone booth, she figured.

Tristan had traded his sweatpants for a suit and long wool coat. He had his arms crossed and was glaring at the car with his jaw set, clearly as pleased at being out in the cold at this time of night as she was. She'd be amused if she wasn't feeling the same way he looked.

Rory watched the two detectives step toward the car trunk with a uniformed officer. Tristan lifted a large flashlight and shined it at the body Rory couldn't see. She had no intention of trying to get a better view. She scanned the scene, looking for the familiar face of the ME, but didn't see her anywhere. There was no medical examiner to tell the detectives anything about the body. If there was no one to tell them more, there was nothing for them to tell Rory.

This could take hours. It _would_ take hours, she knew. And it was probably twenty degrees below zero, if she had to estimate, without including the windshield.

She glanced over at the car again, where a member of the CSI team came over with a camera. The detectives stepped out of the way to give him room as pictures were snapped at every angle of the car. When he was finished, a couple officers started to meticulously search the inside of the car.

Rory turned and started to walk away from the crime scene. If she was going to wait, she was going to do it inside. She could make a phone call later.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory walked through the deserted bullpen of the New York _Daily News_, passing a line of desks until she came to hers. She pressed the button on her computer to boot it up and then went to work peeling off her gloves. She tossed them on the desk and hung her scarf on the back of her swivel chair. With her coat still on, she sat down with a huff and rested her head on her bent arms. Just as she closed her eyes, she was startled by the voice of her editor.

"Finished already?" James West, the editor of the metro section asked her. "What've you got?"

Rory lifted her head enough to glare at him and wish the florescent lights weren't on. "A body was found in the trunk of a car pulled from the Hudson."

"I knew that part—except for the trunk part. What else?"

"I think it was a woman."

"You think?"

"The arm hanging from the place the tail light should have been looked too skinny to be a man's. So using that context clue, I can confidently say it was a female."

"You didn't stay to find out?" James asked with a frown.

"Do you know how cold it is out there?" she asked, pointing to the window lined wall. "I don't want to be out in that, waiting for the medical examiner to show up. I'll cease to be Rory Gilmore the person and instead become Rory Gilmore the ice sculpture. You could put me on display at company parties."

"Is this your first winter?" he asked rhetorically. He shifted his weight to his other foot. "So you have no facts to publish in the paper we put out."

"It won't make tomorrow's paper anyway."

"But we can get it up on the server tonight. That is, we could if you had any information to post."

"The details are pending," Rory said. "I'll get them when they're available. Watch." She pulled out her cell phone and typed a two word message, 'call me', and sent it to Tristan. "There. When he gets time to call, he'll probably have more information. And I know he'll spill his guts, because he doesn't want to be on the wrong side of my wrath." She continued, "Right now, I have enough to write a cryptic description that would make Stephen King's skin crawl." She put the phone on the desk and then returned to her crouched position.

"I guess that's something."

"I know you're just punishing me," she said accusingly. "I was off covering the UN, so now you think I need to make up for it. Couldn't you get someone from Sports tonight? Surely one of them could handle one little homicide. It'll put some muscle in their eyebrows. Like whiskey but without the hangover the next morning."

"Chuck can rub elbows with the manager of the Knicks, but he's lousy with cops. We're talking worse than you when you first got here."

"Hey!" she said indignantly.

"But you're much better now. Why don't you have some cake to cheer yourself up? There's still some left." He nodded over at one of her colleague's desk.

Rory glanced over at it and quickly looked away. "Gross, that's been sitting out all day."

"When has that ever bothered you?"

"It's probably dry. And there's a glop of icing just sitting there. Pass."

"Again, I don't remember that ever being a problem for you."

She knit her brows at him. "I saw a dead arm tonight, Jimmy. You look at a pallid appendage and then just _think_ about eating day-old stale cake."

He was silent for a moment. Then, "You know, I'm starting to understand what people are saying about you."

She lifted her head, alert. "What are people saying?"

"That you've been acting kind of . . . crazy lately."

She scowled again. "I'm not crazy. Who's been saying I'm crazy?"

"It's just some whispering I've heard, like after the meeting yesterday. Did you say you wanted to hit Allen from marketing?"

"I don't know, when?" she asked, searching her memory. "Wait, he took up twenty minutes of the meeting, and he just yammered on and on about god knows what. Someone _did_ need to slap him." Muttering, she added, "Such a waste of my time. I have better things to do."

"See? That there is on the abrasive side. You might want to curb that."

"So I get a little irritated sometimes, who doesn't?" She pointed a finger at him. "And if you say I'm PMSing, I _will_ hit you. Why don't you go on home?" she suggested, making a shoeing motion with her hand. "I've got this. "

"Marie's supposed to be getting in some time tonight, too."

"We'll get our stories up, no worries. I know how to do it."

Obviously not hating the offer—both to go home and to get away from Rory—James headed back to his office for his coat. "All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

She called out, "Don't expect me before noon." She yawned and put her head back down on her desk.

"I have no intention of letting you into my newsroom before then."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan and Mark walked through the front doors of the twenty-first precinct and went straight for the elevator. "I wish murderers would have the courtesy to commit their crimes indoors when it's freezing out," Tristan said.

"And earlier in the day," Mark added. He punched the floor number and crossed his arms.

When the lift stopped at the third floor, the detectives walked out to the squad room. They were the only ones there. They went straight to their desks, which faced each other, and started to remove their coats. Tristan bent down to one of his bottom drawers to retrieve a canister of coffee. It was Rory-approved, and therefore infinitely better than what the New York Police Department had to offer them. He went over to the coffee maker on a table against the wall and started a pot before returning to his desk. Across from him, Mark was staring blankly at his computer screen as it slowly booted up.

Upon checking messages on his phone, Tristan dialed his wife.

Several rings later, she groggily answered, "Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you?" he asked, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

She took a second before slowly replying, "The newsroom. I left your crime scene."

"That's twice tonight you bailed on me."

"It's freezing, and you could have taken hours. What time is it?"

"A little after two. We just got in."

"See? I was right," she said. "You sound tired."

"So do you."

"Are you crying?"

"No." He swiped at his eyes again.

"But your eyes are watering. I can hear it in your voice."

"You can hear my eyes watering in my voice? That doesn't even make sense."

"I was right wasn't I?" she challenged. Getting back to work, she asked, "Does your victim have a name?"

"Jane Doe. There was nothing to ID her."

"Drowned?"

"Probably, but not confirmed. The car wasn't rolled into the river recently." Tristan put a hand to his mouth to cover a wide yawn and then pressed the Power button on his computer.

"Stop yawning. You're going to make me yawn."

"Sorry."

"Who does the car belong to?"

"We don't know. The license plates were taken off."

"Got to love it when they cover their tracks," she said. "But it'll make it harder to deny it wasn't on purpose."

"Mm-hmm, silver lining. The car doesn't belong to anyone in the area. We canvassed the neighborhood."

"So there's a small portion of Manhattan who hates you right now."

"Isn't there always?"

Rory sighed into the phone, then began to read off her report, "So authorities are looking into missing persons reports in relation to a female body found in a red Dodge Stratus that was pulled from the Hudson River Thursday night."

"Stamp a date on it and send it to the presses."

"Will do," she said. "Right after I rest my eyes for a few minutes." She yawned again. "Maybe I'll see you in a few days."

"Here's hoping," he said before ending the call. He rubbed his forehead before logging into his computer. "Let the games begin."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory sat down in her chair with an oomph and pulled her top drawer open. She had a handful of new office supplies to replenish her desk. She eagerly stacked boxes of staples and brightly colored Post-its in the corner of the drawer. After she rounded up all the loose pens that were rolling around—rearranging them by color and ink levels, she closed the drawer and drummed her fingers on the desk as she glanced around the newsroom. It was nearly dawn. She'd fallen asleep until Marie came in, and finally typed up her own story. After another nap and a bad cup of coffee, she'd posted their reports on the website. She was just doing a bit of housekeeping before she went home.

She picked up her cellphone and dialed her husband. "It's your last chance," she told him when he answered.

"For what?"

"To get some details about your case in the paper."

"Always my first priority," he deadpanned, his voice still low from a night without sleep.

"I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Are you at work again or still?" he asked. "It's still dark out."

"Still. I haven't left yet."

"Neither have I. But I'm much less chipper."

"I've had a few power naps. And I'm going home soon."

Tristan groaned into the phone. "Come take me with you."

"Sorry, they need you." Getting back to business, she asked, "So is there anything new?"

"Nope. We've been buried in missing persons reports for the last five hours."

"Party time."

"Pretty much. Jane Doe is still Jane Doe, and we're waiting to find out the vehicle identification number to help us out."

"All right. Good luck." She ended the call, but didn't put her phone down. Instead, she dialed another number and leaned back in her swivel chair.

"Hmm?" Lorelai mumbled unhappily a moment later.

"Good morning to you too," Rory said happily.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No."

"In jail again?"

"No. And I really wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. It's not that funny."

"To you," Lorelai said.

Rory went on, "This is your complimentary morning wake-up call."

"I didn't request one." Lorelai made an exaggerated crying noise, and whined, "I was asleep."

"That's the point of a wake-up call. Luke gets up early all the time," Rory reminded her.

"But he leaves quietly so I can continue my beauty sleep. That's love. I don't know what _this_ is." Lorelai muttered, "Cruel and unusual punishment." Her voice was muffled, like she'd let her face fall back against the pillow. "Why are you so peppy anyway?"

"I've been up all night," Rory answered. "Well, off and on. I got called to work." She continued, summarizing her night. "And between napping and working, I'm still here." Powering on, she said, "I was just tidying up so everything will be ready for when I come in later, and I thought about how you should come to go shopping."

"I don't understand how that last thought is connected to anything before it."

"You'd have to be in my head."

"Sounds like a frightening place at the moment." Lorelai said, "We just went shopping."

"When?"

"Before Christmas."

Clearly, her mother was hallucinating in her half-wake state. "That was Christmas shopping, for other people," Rory pointed out. "This time will be for us."

Lorelai paused. "I like shopping for us."

"I know, so I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I can't. There's a group of bug scientists staying at the inn for a big convention."

"Entomologists?"

"Is that what they're called?"

"Yes. Hey, maybe that's why they chose the Dragonfly. It appeals to them."

"Mm, I guess," Lorelai said.

"Okay then, how about next weekend?"

"Fine," she said. "But you're going to have to remind me. I can't promise I won't think this is a dream later."

Rory pulled out one of her freshly organized pens and made a note on her large desk calendar. "Would you like another wake-up call?" she offered.

"Not remotely."

"Fine. You are penciled in. But in ink, because this is happening."

"Great," Lorelai said flatly.

Rory yawned and blinked a few times. "I should probably get home soon, I think I'm about to crash." They ended the call and she put her phone away. Her eyelids feeling heavy, and her muscles achy from lack of meaningful REM sleep, she stood and started putting her layers back on. Luckily, she was getting out of the office before she passed any of her co-workers. She'd probably only end up scowling at them anyway, disgusted by their luxurious full night of sleep.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

With his elbow propped on his desk, Tristan rested the side of his face in his palm and closed his eyes. Across from him, Mark was on the phone, making noises indicating he was listening, as he took notes.

"Great, thanks," he said before hanging up. "All right, we have a VIN."

Tristan opened his eyes and clicked his computer mouse a few times, pulling up the police department's search engine. When his fingers were poised over the number pad, his partner read off the long number. When the results came up a few minutes later, he read, "It was reported stolen at the end of October, by a Josephine Lynnie."

Mark frowned and tilted his head, brown eyes narrowed. "Why is that name familiar?"

"I don't know."

He shook his head. "I'm too tired to remember, but I swear I've heard it before." He typed the name into his own computer and waited for the results. He hit his desk with his hand and pointed at Tristan. "That's right, she's the P.E. teacher at Hannah's school." He stood up and pulled his suit jacket off the back of his chair.

Tristan slowly got up and did the same. When their coats and scarves were on, they headed out to the elevator terminal. The bell dinged when it stopped at their floor, and the doors opened. The lift was already occupied. A man with dark greying hair in a charcoal pea coat stared out at them.

Tristan scowled and whined, "Now what?"

It was his father, Harrison DuGrey.

Tristan stepped onto the elevator, as though throwing himself into a confrontation, and his partner followed. Tristan tried to think of which case was coming to trial, but his brain was too muddled to come up with anything. He'd thought his father was through with him after his summer visit. There was no rhyme or reason to come to New York again. "Which case is it this time?"

Harrison glanced at him and then back to the elevator doors. "Jonathan Newman is the defendant."

Tristan frowned, confused—as he always was when trying to figure out what game his father was playing. "Who?"

"It was my case," Mark said.

"Your cases are my cases," Tristan argued.

"Not when you're out of town on vacation. The world keeps spinning."

Harrison snickered.

Tristan only tossed him a sidelong glance. When the elevator doors opened, he was still frowning, but didn't know how to respond. They all walked out of the precinct in tense silence, the cold hitting them as soon as they opened the door. Without another word to each other or a polite 'goodbye', the detectives parted from the attorney.

They continued to Tristan's car in silence, and he spent half the drive trying to make sense of the situation. He didn't have much luck. At least his father's summer visit had ended with a reveal—his opinion that Tristan's current occupation was all he was good for. He was an 'effective' investigator, and he correctly chose the job he's good at. Harrison had been wrong to try to stop him from going into law enforcement, wrong to have threatened him with money.

Harrison was wrong, and he admitted it. But for whatever reason, Tristan had yet to take pleasure in it. Having never imagined the scenario playing out, he'd intended to hold on to his resentment for the foreseeable future. This new evolution of their relationship felt worse than it had before.

Unable to hold the questions in any longer, he asked, "What happened with that Newman case? Who worked on it with you?" He pointed his thumb backwards. "Did you know he was taking your case?"

It took Mark a moment to process all the questions at once. "The guy killed his neighbor. A uni was assigned to help me. And no, this is the first I've seen of your dad since July."

Then why was he back, Tristan wondered. He hated that his dad wouldn't just come out and say it. He had to lurk around, intimidating him. Or intimidating his partner this time, for whatever reason. Tristan felt helpless, not knowing all the details of the case, not knowing if everything was done right.

He shook his head. Of course Mark did things right. He knew how to do his job, he was the one who'd recently been promoted, after all.

Something about it still bothered Tristan. Tiredly, he rubbed his face with his free hand. He needed to focus on what he was doing today, the new distraction would have to wait.

When they'd reached the elementary school on the other side of Manhattan, they signed in at the office and proceeded down the hall. Mark first headed straight for a classroom that was not the gym, but his wife's.

"We're here to work, you know," Tristan reminded him. "So keep the flirting to a minimum."

Mark gave him a withering stare. "I've had to watch you flirt with your wife for _four years_," he deadpanned.

"She wasn't my wife that whole time."

Mark waved a hand. "Technicality. I think you can handle five minutes."

Tristan followed Mark into one of the classrooms, finding it void of students. The only person was a redheaded woman, sitting at a cluttered desk in the front corner. She had a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a red pen in the other. She was concentrating on the top sheet of a stack of papers.

Upon hearing someone walk in, she looked up, and her face brightened in surprise. She glanced from her husband to Tristan and back again. "Hey, what are you doing here?" she asked, setting her sandwich down and brushing her hands.

"Work brought us," Mark answered. He walked around her desk to her side and sat on the edge.

Tristan pulled out a chair from a desk in the back row of the classroom and had a seat. It was a long fall to the child size chair. While the married couple at the front of the room chatted, he leaned down far enough to peek inside the desk. There was a pile of books on each side, both unevenly stacked. Pencils and a large pink eraser laid haphazardly among the books, rather than on the designated groove at the front of the desk. Frowning at the disorder, Tristan began rearranging the books from large to small, and put the writing utensils where they belonged.

Mark heard his partner rummaging and turned to ask, "What are you doing?"

Tristan tossed him a glance. "Fixing this desk."

"Was there something wrong with it?"

"It was a mess. But it's looking much better now."

Mark and Hannah both stared at him. "Great, now I'll be able to sleep at night."

"Me too."

Dryly, Mark said, "I apologize for my anal retentive partner. He gets weird sometimes."

To the blonde, Hannah commented, "So you're a back of the room kind of student, huh?"

"It's where the cool kids sit."

"And they let you sit with them?" Mark asked.

"Funny," Tristan said. "So where's the gym? I'll go talk to Josephine Lynnie. Unless you need the board erased first."

"Oh no," Hannah said, glancing at her dry erase board, which was covered with math equations. "It's Jack's job to erase the board this week." She nodded at a list of chores on a bulletin board behind her desk, each with a student's name next to it. "He'll be pretty upset if he comes in to see it's been done already."

Tristan stood and tucked the little chair back in.

"Josephine's in the cafeteria," Hannah told him. "Lunch duty."

He turned and headed toward the door.

Mark asked, "Do you know where it is?"

"I'll figure it out." Tristan left them and went back down the hallway. Just as the last time they'd stopped by the school, student work lined the walls as he passed.

He heard the chatter of a large group of children and followed the noise to the end of another hall. A line of kids waiting to get their lunches stretched to the door. They were all dressed in khakis and navy polo shirts. He asked them where Miss Lynnie could be located. Eager to be helpful, four of the kids pointed to a woman on the other side of the cafeteria. She had long dirty blonde hair and was wearing sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt. She made eye contact with a student who was taking his time to sit, and she sternly pointed her finger down. Tristan watched as the child sat.

Mark caught up then, a step behind Tristan. They approached the teacher and introduced themselves. Hearing they worked for the police department, she asked, "Is this about my car?"

"Yeah. What can you tell us about it?" Tristan asked.

"It got stolen last fall," she answered bluntly, confirming the police report they'd read. "I got up one morning to come to school, but when I got out to the parking lot, my car was gone. I panicked. No one had ever stolen something from me like that before. It's stupid, but I took it kind of personally."

"You don't have any idea of who would have taken it?"

She shook her head. "No. I was asleep when it happened. I didn't hear a thing." Josephine put her hands on her hips, offended. "Then when the police were on their way out, my upstairs neighbor came down and asked if they were there about my car."

She scanned the cafeteria to make sure the kids were all behaving. Tristan did the same, and saw a boy stand to goof off in front of his classmates. He wondered if he could accomplish the same thing the P.E. teacher had. When he caught the young boy's eye, Tristan pointed down. The boy quickly sat and ducked his head, glancing around to see if anyone else saw. Though pleased with the results, Tristan resisted the urge to smile.

"You're a natural," she complimented.

"Thanks. So your neighbor knew your car was stolen?"

Josephine nodded. "Apparently. She heard a noise out in the parking lot in the middle of the night and didn't do anything about it." She crossed her arms. "So why are you asking all these questions? You're more interested in my car than the cops who came to file the report."

"It turned up last night," Mark answered. When her eyes lit up, he continued, "But you won't be able to drive it. It was pulled out of the Hudson River."

Her face fell into a frown.

"And there was a body in the trunk."

Her jaw dropped. "What? A body? In _my_ car?"

Tristan nodded somberly.

"Do you know who it is?" Josephine asked.

"Not yet." He held up a picture that had been taken at the morgue earlier that morning. It was of a young woman with dark auburn hair, matted down from being soaked. Her skin was sallow, and her lips had turned pale purple. "Do you have any idea who this is?"

Josephine slowly shook her head. "No, I've never seen her before. Sorry, I wish I could help."

He pocketed the picture. "It'll help to figure out who took your car. We need to talk to your neighbor. Maybe she remembers more about the night it was stolen."

Josephine smiled crept over her face. "Oh. You're going to have some fun with her."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan tapped his knuckles on a door on the fifth floor of Josephine Lynnie's apartment building. When no one answered he knocked again. "Police, is anyone here?" he prodded.

The door still didn't swing open, but a grave voice from inside said, "Come in."

Tristan glanced at his partner before turning the knob and entering the apartment. Dark purple drapes covered the windows, leaving the one-room abode ominously dim. The flames from several lit candles flickered throughout the room, creating a soft glow. Tristan could smell incense burning strongly. He imagined this was what a gypsy caravan would look like.

An old woman with wrinkly olive skin sat on one side of a table in the middle of the room, with another chair opposite her. Her shiny black hair was pulled back tightly. She had her eyes closed in concentration, but slowly opened them in the wake of the detectives' presence.

"Madam Atlantica?" Tristan asked cautiously.

She stared at him for a few moments, and then said, "A father is near."

Mark snickered behind him. "Hey, how'd she know?"

Ignoring him, she continued, "He wants what's best for his . . ." She paused, in thought. "Daughter."

Tristan made a clicking sound with his tongue and tiled his head. "You're one for three."

"Sit," she commanded.

"I'm not here to get my future told," he said, not moving.

"Sit," she repeated, firmer.

Tristan sighed lightly and pulled out the chair in front of the woman. Trying to continue with the actual interview, he showed her his gold shield and said, "We want to talk to you about your neighbor's car. Josephine Lynnie said you could hear someone breaking into the car the night it was stolen."

Madam Atlantica picked up a deck of cards—Tarot cards, Tristan assumed—and started flipping through them, unfazed by the detectives.

He added, "It was back in October."

She started laying the cards in a row on the table. "I was in the middle of a consultation," she said. "I was speaking with a client's grandmother. She's dead."

"The client?"

"The grandmother."

"Sure," Tristan said. "But can you tell us anything about the car theft? Did you see who took it?"

"I could not break the connection I had with the dead."

Mark asked, "Not even to make a quick call to the police?"

She lifted her gaze to give him a patronizing look. "They made such a racket out there, how was I supposed to know Josie couldn't hear? I thought they woke up the whole block." She looked back to the blonde. "For all I knew, she heard everything and had already called the police."

"So you can't help us at all," Tristan said, sitting back. He took out a business card with his information on it and handed it to the woman. "Call if you remember anything. There's a dead girl involved, so any information could help us."

He stood and turned to leave. Before they could exit the apartment, Madam Atlantica stopped them. "Wait, I was wrong."

He turned and warily asked, "About what?"

"The father I spoke of when you came in."

"No, you were right. The dark lord has ascended on New York. Again."

Ignoring him, she continued, "It's a son, not daughter."

Tristan turned to Mark. "Should I be concerned it took her this long to figure out my gender?"

Mark grinned and shook his head as Tristan continued out the door. He asked the old woman, "Anything for me?"

Without looking up from her cares, she said, "You're observant. You'll figure it out."

Mark nodded. "An observant detective. That's amazing."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

In the elevator at the precinct later that day, Mark pressed the button for their floor and they started to rise. Tristan crossed his arms and stared at the doors. When they stopped at the third floor, the doors opened and Stevenson stepped out. Noticing his partner had not followed, he turned back. "What are you doing?"

Tristan hit the button for the next floor. "I'll be right there." He didn't have time for any further explanation, as the elevator doors closed and continued its ascent. On the fourth floor, he walked out and went to one of the offices. He knocked quickly and let himself in before waiting for a response.

The assistant district attorney, Greg Jacobs, glanced up for a half a second and then went back to reading the document in front of him. He didn't look happy to see the detective, though he never did. "What?" he asked, eyes still cast down. He picked up a pen to write a note on his page.

"I saw my dad this morning."

"So did I."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And, why is he here again? I thought he was finished with me."

"Maybe it's not about you," Jacobs said in vain. "It isn't your case."

Tristan tapped the arm of the chair with his finger, trying to think of a response. He'd been awake too long. And possibly worst of all, there was no logical argument this time. Harrison had already seen what Tristan could do and paid him a compliment—backhanded as it was.

He'd been wrong, Tristan thought for the umpteenth time. Harrison had been wrong a long time ago, surely he could be wrong again. Who was he to say what Tristan could—and couldn't—do?

Tristan continued tapping his finger. He wondered if Harrison had told Jacobs his thoughts on Tristan's abilities and where they were best used. He imagined them having a good laugh about it. Jacobs would just love that, after years of being pestered by the lowly detective with an over-sized ego, to have his own father doubt him.

Harrison was wrong.

Tristan's eyes flashed to Jacob's. "Let me go co-counsel."

The redhead finally looked up slowly to focus on Tristan, and did so as though he'd just sprouted a second head. "What? No."

Tristan gripped the armrest, his heart starting to beat faster at the idea. "Yeah. Let me in on it."

"I don't need—or want—your help. I don't know how many times I have to tell you to get it through your thick skull."

"I didn't say I want to help you," Tristan argued. He didn't say what he wanted to do, that wouldn't fly. It occurred to him how he usually went about winning people over, and that he'd never tried it on Jacobs. Vinegar never worked, it wouldn't hurt to try honey. He took a calming breath, and as pleasantly as he could manage, he said, "You don't need my help."

The pen in Jacob's hand stopped. He looked up. "What?"

"You don't need my help. You're a competent lawyer."

He blinked. "Did it physically pain you to say that?" he asked. "Are you seriously trying to flatter me? Because I can see through you, and you don't mean it." He turned his attention back to his work. "You specifically told me I _did_ need your help the last time your old man was in town. He's the best, remember?"

"And yet, you held your own against him. Heck, I think you even gave him a run for his money." When the attorney's forehead scrunched up in confusion, Tristan knew he'd gone too far. But once he was in suck-up mode, it was hard to tone it down.

Jacobs stared silently for a few seconds. "You work for the police department," he said. "By choice. And _I_ work for the DA's office. Your half of the show is over, now it's my turn. Go watch an episode of _Law & Order_ to see how it's done."

"But I didn't have anything to do with this case. I didn't get a turn."

"You still don't work for the district attorney. You might think you'd make a really great mayor, but you aren't entitled to walk into his office and take over." Jacobs considered him a moment. Then, "If you don't like it, feel free to fill out a job application downtown."

Tristan almost flinched at the blunt advice. He shook his head a little and pulled out his cell phone, scrolling down his list of contacts. Dropping the pleasant façade he'd been trying out, he acerbically said, "I don't know why I came by to talk to you. I'll just do what I normally do."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Rory," a faraway voice said. She moaned a little when her shoulder was nudged. "Rory."

"Hmm?"

"Wake up."

She sighed heavily and opened her eyes enough to squint at her husband. He was in his slacks and dress shirt, his tie loose around his neck. If it hadn't been for the tell-tale loosened neckwear, she might have thought he was starting a new day, rather than ending one. She glanced around the lamp-lit room, still glaring at being jostled awake. "What day is it?" she asked.

"Friday," he answered. "Evening. You haven't called to bother me since this morning."

"I bother you?"

"I don't think it's on purpose."

"That makes it worse." She thought about it a moment, then admitted, "Sometimes it's on purpose."

"It's okay. Sometimes I withhold information to bother you."

"I _knew_ it."

Taking his tie off, he asked, "How long have you been home?"

She checked the time on the alarm clock in her nightstand. "All day," she said, reluctantly sitting up. "I would have gone to work this afternoon, but I didn't feel very good, so I stayed home and went back to sleep."

Tristan put his hand to her forehead. "You're sick?"

"I think I'm okay now. I'm kind of hungry though." She crawled off the bed and put on a pair of slippers that were on the floor next to her vanity before heading out of the bedroom. "Did you find out who the dead girl is today?"

"No. We didn't get very far. Although we did see a psychic, which can probably be considered the highlight of any day."

"Really?" she asked as they walked down to the first floor.

"Yeah. The car was stolen, and the psychic heard it happen."

"Did she read your fortune?" Rory asked with a smile. When they'd reached the kitchen, she went to the cabinet for a pot to boil water.

"No," Tristan answered, taking a seat at the center island. "That's not to say I wasn't impressed with her at all. She knew about Dad being in New York."

Rory sat a box of pasta down and turned to Tristan with knit brows. "Your dad? Again?"

"Yeah," he said with a nod.

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. "Is he taking one of your cases again?"

"No, one of Mark's."

Rory pouted slightly. "That makes less sense than before. I thought all that with your dad was finished."

"I know, me too. _But_," he said, stretching out the word and leaning forward, "since I didn't have anything to do with the investigation, I'm going co-counsel."

Rory stared. "What?"

He nodded. "Jacobs wasn't interested, so I just called the DA."

"And you wonder why he doesn't like you," she said dryly.

"I don't really wonder, it's been spelled out on numerous occasions." Tristan continued, "Anyway, the DA wasn't completely against the idea. He said we'll have to let the judge decide, since I'm related to the defense attorney. And that's no big deal, opposing attorneys have been related before."

"No big deal, huh?" she said doubtfully.

"Yeah. I already found the legal precedence after I talked to the DA," he explained. "There'd be a bigger problem if we had a sexual relationship. But then we'd have an entirely different set of issues."

"Yikes," Rory said vaguely. "So now you only have to cram for a trial."

"Yeah," he said breezily, like it would be easy. He tapped a stack of manila folders that was sitting on the counter next to him.

"But can you really represent the State in an official capacity?" she asked. "You don't work for the district attorney."

"Now you sound like Jacobs."

She amended her question, "I mean, you have a job. Will Captain Meyer let you?"

He shrugged. "I didn't really ask him for permission so much as informed him after the fact."

"And how'd he like that?"

"He wasn't very outspoken."

"So he didn't like it at all."

"I promised him I'd keep up with my police work, and he won't notice at all. I can handle both."

Rory thought about it for a few minutes, and after adding noodles to her boiling water and turning the temperature down, she turned suddenly. "Are we in trouble?"

"What kind of trouble?"

"Financial. Won't your dad have to hand over your trust fund if you turn into a lawyer?"

"We're fine," Tristan answered. He slowly added, "His goal has always been to get me to turn in my badge. And I'm not turning into a lawyer."

No more than what he already was, she silently thought. "But your dad is okay with you enforcing the law, he told me. He's just being withholding now."

Tristan shrugged and averted his gaze. "I don't understand him any better than you."

Rory was fairly certain she didn't understand the father or the son at this point.

He continued, "Mark's my partner—practically a brother to me. I can't just leave him to the wolves. Well, wolf."

"Sure," Rory said, choosing not to voice her doubts on his reasoning. His usual claim was feeling protective of evidence he worked hard to get. His reasons for interfering were starting to sound more like excuses. "So you're really doing this."

"Yup." He leaned forward again. "So? What do you think?"

"I'm just a little shocked. I support whatever you do."

"Because you have to?"

"No, because I know you've always wanted to do this, to see if you can." She thought she saw his eyes flash at her. She continued, "But I didn't think you ever would. You said you never would. Your dad would think you're just giving in."

"I'm not worried about that. He should know it's because he's picking on Mark. I won't let him."

"Still, your stubbornness knows no bounds," she said. "But I guess if you don't have anything to worry about, neither do I." As she stirred through her noodles, a thought popped into her head. "I wonder if your mom is in town again too." Hastily, she added, "Like the last time your dad was here."

"That was just a coincidence," Tristan said. He shook his head. "A horrible, horrible coincidence."

Rory had another idea, but kept it to herself. He'd only reject it, she knew.

When she took out the peanut butter from the pantry and sat it next to the stove, he asked, "What are you making?"

"Noodles with peanut butter," she answered. "I had a dream about it, and it was delicious."

"Well sure," he said. "Are we having anything else for dinner?"

"I'm good with just this. Do you need something else?"

He nodded, nonplussed. "I think we have a frozen pizza." He stood and picked up the folders. "I'm going to go shower first. Can I expect you to join in to finish what we started?" he asked hopefully.

"You can, but you'll be disappointed."


	2. Take it Away

**Title**: It's Five O'clock Somewhere

**Chapter 2**: Take it Away

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thank you for the reviews!

_You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance. –Franklin P. Jones_

**Take it Away**

Rory walked downstairs Saturday morning and continued to the beacon of light that was the kitchen. She found Tristan there, leaning his side against the counter, watching a couple pancakes sizzle on a griddle. A pot of coffee was behind him, already half empty.

She admired his figure, clad in dark wash jeans and a white dress shirt, his blonde hair combed forward. She wondered how committed he was to starting the day, or if he'd be interested in joining her back upstairs. She snapped out of this reverie when he noticed her and looked up.

"Morning."

"Morning," she returned, rounding the island to take a seat on a stool to watch him flip the pancakes. "How long have you been up?"

He checked the time on the glowing microwave clock. Seeing it said eight o'clock, he answered, "A few hours."

Rory propped an elbow on the counter so she could rest her cheek in her hand. "I slept most of yesterday and all night, and I think I could go back to bed. How are you even functioning?"

He shrugged. "I woke up, so I got up."

"Pancakes are an ambitious breakfast when you have to get to work."

"We don't have anything else."

"Nothing?" she asked with a frown, getting up and going to the pantry. She opened it and sure enough, it was nearly baron, save for the spices and a few boxes of pasta. She continued to the refrigerator, and found a similar picture. While there was only enough milk to fill half a glass, there was enough ketchup and mustard to make a terrific condiment sandwich—if they had any bread, that is. She took the small spiral notebook off the magnet clip from the refrigerator door and took it to her place at the counter.

Picking up an ink pen, she asked, "What do we need?"

"Everything," Tristan answered as he took two plates down from the cabinet.

Rory wrote the one word response on the top line and sat the notepad aside. "We can go to the store tonight." She noticed her digital camera sitting on a manila folder to the side of the island and picked it up. "What's this out for?"

He glanced over as he flipped the pancakes one last time. "I think we're paying too much on our property taxes compared to the other buildings around us. I'm going to take some pictures and contest it."

She pressed the power button and focused on Tristan, snapping a photo. "Why didn't you do that last year?"

"Because I did our taxes at the last minute."

"Oh, right. The neighbors are going to think somebody died suspiciously with you lurking around, snapping photos," Rory said, setting the camera back down.

Tristan flipped the pancakes onto the top plate and slid it over to Rory. She got up for butter and syrup while he poured batter on the griddle for two more pancakes. While they cooked, he picked up her little spiral notebook and flipped the page. He wrote down a six digit number and handed it over.

"What's this?"

"The new security code to get into the building."

"You changed it this morning?"

He nodded.

"Of course you did. You've had a whole day." She frowned at the numbers. "Mom's going to be disappointed it's not her birthday anymore."

"She had her year."

Rory waved the notepad. "I don't recognize this date. Whose birthday is it?"

"I have family members too, you know."

"I know."

"And they'd like their birthday commemorated by being our security code for a year."

"Okay," Rory said. "So whose is it?"

"Not important."

After a pause, she asked, "Your dad?"

"I didn't say that."

"I know, that's why I guessed him. If it was your grandpa, you'd just admit it. But you don't want to, so it must be your dad. He's obviously on your mind."

"It could be Mom's," he argued.

"Is it?"

"No." When she smiled in triumph, he pouted, "You don't know me." When his pancakes were finished, he joined Rory at the island and reached for the butter. "Are you going to work today?"

"No. I'll phone it in if I need to," she answered. "I don't have clean clothes to wear out in public. And I'm on my last pair of underwear."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan rubbed his forehead as he concentrated on the document in front of him. He flipped through a few pages behind it and distractedly asked, "You got a warrant before you searched the house, right?"

From the desk across from him, Mark looked up with a frown. "What? When?"

"On this Newman case."

Mark blinked. "Yes. I got a warrant first," he said, his brows moving closer together slightly.

Tristan pulled out another form and put it on top so he could skim it. "Here it is."

Mark stared. "And before you ask, I properly Mirandized him—in case you're worried I don't know how it works without your supervision." He went back to looking through missing persons. "If it's not too much trouble, I could use your help on _our_ case," he said pointedly.

Tristan reluctantly sat aside the folder he was looking through and picked up his stack of pictures. They'd weeded out some by comparing the photo they had of the victim, but weren't any closer to identifying her. A couple minutes later, his phone buzzed from his pocket.

"DuGrey."

"Gilmore. Anything new?" his wife asked.

"I've been here a half an hour," he deadpanned.

"I know, but you've been like Superman today. I thought you might have cleared the case by now."

"I haven't. We don't know anything new," he told her as he turned to another photo. "Do you have any idea how many women have been reported missing in New York in the past few months?"

"Loads," Rory answered. "That's why I'm waiting for you to figure it out, so then you can just tell me. I'll go from there."

"You're getting lazy." His desk phone started ringing then. "I'm getting anther call. I have to go."

"Wait, wait, wait, don't hang up! It could be important, and then you can tell me about it," Rory pleaded.

It was in vain, as Tristan went ahead and ended the call on his cell. He picked up his other phone and answered. He listened to the caller and nodded, scribbling a name down. He hung up and looked over at Mark. "Dental records say it's Avery Fox."

They both typed the name into their search engines and waited for the results. Mark read, "She was reported missing last October by her mother."

Tristan Googled her name, and scanned the articles. Sardonically, he said, "Oh boy, Rory's going to like this one."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later, the two detectives were sitting across the dining room table from a woman in her early sixties and her daughter. They'd just broken the bad news, which wasn't a complete surprise to the them. Tristan always dreaded this part of the job. Families wanted answers and looked to them with expectant looks, trusting them to seek justice on their behalf. It was a lot to live up to, and they always promised they would. Unfortunately, it was an empty promise sometimes.

The younger woman, Aubrey pushed her blonde hair over her shoulder. "You're sure it's her?" she asked, though with little conviction, as though she was hoping they'd say they made a mistake.

"We'll need you to come by the morgue to ID her, but the dental records matched hers," Stevenson said, pocketing the photo he'd shown them so they wouldn't have to look at it.

Tristan asked Mrs. Fox, "You reported Avery missing on October thirtieth, correct?"

The older woman shook her head. "I tried a couple days earlier—as soon as she stopped answering my calls. She usually gets back to me at the end of the night, but she hadn't. So right away, I knew something was wrong. But the police said they wouldn't do anything at first, because an adult could leave without telling anyone. But Avery wouldn't do that."

"Is there anyone who had a problem with her?" Tristan asked.

"I can't think of anyone. She was such a sweet girl."

Aubrey said, "She could have made someone down at city hall mad. She pesters some of those council members sometimes."

"Avery fought for the truth," Mrs. Fox argued. "That's just her job." She shook her head sadly. "She had such a promising future. I just don't understand who would do this to her."

Stevenson asked, "Did she have a boyfriend?"

"She did," Mrs. Fox answered. "Sean Adams. He's a nice boy."

Next to her, Aubrey's lips flattened into a thin line and her brows lowered. Hesitantly, she said, "He's very charming, that's for sure."

Tristan lifted a cup of tea that was in front of him. Although it was half full, he told the younger woman, "Could I have some more?" He stood and pointed to the next room. "It's just in the kitchen, right?"

Aubrey nodded. "Yeah, I'll get it."

Tristan followed her into the kitchen and sat the cup down. "You don't like your sister's boyfriend," he said. "Why not?"

The woman busied herself with some dirty dishes that were next to the sink. "He isn't really a nice man."

"How do you know?"

"I've just always had a bad feeling about him."

"A feeling?" Tristan asked skeptically. "I've already talked to a psychic this week. I need more to go on than a feeling."

The blonde woman leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. "There's something about him I don't trust. He's always vague about what he does for a living, and about where he goes sometimes," she explained. "Avery was thinking about breaking up with him anyway."

Tristan's eyes flashed. "She was? Why?"

"She was always talking about some guy from her work. I'm pretty sure she wanted to date him. I told her it was a bad idea to date someone you work with, but she said that wouldn't be a problem soon."

"What did she mean by that?"

Aubrey shrugged. "I don't know. She just wasn't worried about it."

Tristan passed her his card, asking her to call if she thought of anything else before they returned to the dining room.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory woke up later to the sound of her cellphone vibrating on the coffee table. She reluctantly reached out for it, exposing her arm that had been warmly resting under a blanket. "Hello?"

"Do you have something written up about Avery Fox?" James asked.

Rory blinked. "Who's Avery Fox?"

"Jane Doe. Were you asleep?"

"Maybe. They found out who she was? No one told me." She picked up her laptop from the coffee table and pressed a key to bring it out of hibernation.

"The police only just released a name, but I thought you might've already been tipped off and therefore knee deep in research."

Rory shook her head as she typed the woman's name into her search engine. "I didn't get any privileged information today." She rubbed her forehead and focused on the screen. "There're a lot of results for her name. Is she a city council member?"

"I was hoping you'd know that sort of information."

"Hold on," she grumbled. She clicked on the top article, which was when she found the name she was looking for. She gasped. "Oh my god. She's a reporter for the _Post_." She clicked the back button and scanned the other articles on the page. "I wonder what she was writing about."

"You just mentioned city hall."

"I know, but I mean specifically—like who or what."

"If reporters got murdered every time they made someone upset, there wouldn't be any of us left."

"But she wrote for city hall," Rory argued. "City halls are notoriously rife with scandal—embezzlement, extortion, bribery. There are an infinite number of ways for politicians to suck. And they probably don't want some spunky reporter nosing around."

"Sorry for trying to burst your bubble."

"I accept your apology," she said. "I'll write up something for the Sunday edition to send to you, and then I'm hitting the library—right after I get another load of laundry started."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath." He added, "For what you find, not your laundry."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later, Tristan and Mark strode through a newsroom full of grey cubicles. There was a buzz in the air not unlike that of the _Daily News_. Busy reporters were hunched over their computers typing diligently, no doubt rushing to meet deadlines. The detectives stopped when they reached an office, and tapped on the door. A middle-aged man in a white button down shirt and tie looked over the rims of his glasses to focus on the two men. When they showed their badges and introduced themselves, he gestured for them to enter his office.

"It must be bad news," Patrick Phillips, the metro editor of the New York _Post_ said at the mention of one of his reporters. He shook his head. "Avery's mother called me, trying to track her down, but I hadn't seen her in a few days."

"She didn't call in sick?" Tristan asked.

The man shook his head again. "No. One of my photographers asked about her, he was worried, but I didn't hear from her until she e-mailed me." Patrick turned his attention to his computer and clicked around a few times, a frown of concentration on his face. "Here it is." He turned the monitor so the detectives could read the message.

Stevenson asked, "She resigned? Did you know she was planning to quit?"

Patrick shook his head and turned the monitor back. "I had no idea."

"So she didn't ask for references or give any indication she was getting a new job?" Tristan asked.

"No. This was it. And she never came to get her personal items from her desk. She was just gone."

"My wife would be remiss if I didn't ask," Tristan started, "what was Avery writing about?"

"She wrote for city hall."

"Did she make any enemies?"

Patrick shrugged. "We're journalists, sometimes we make people mad. If we made a big deal about it every time, we'd be calling you guys left and right."

"But has anyone complained about her lately?"

"Not to me."

Tristan commented, "I assume you aren't going to let us confiscate her computer?"

"You assume correctly," the editor said. "But you can look around her desk."

"We'd like a word with that photographer, too," Mark added as they got up, once again passing along a business card.

The editor led them back down the line of cubicles, pointing out Avery's before continuing down another aisle. He stopped when they'd reached the workspace of the photographer he and Aubrey Fox had mentioned.

"Todd," Phillips said. He jerked his head in the direction of Tristan and Mark. "The police want to talk to you about Avery."

Todd, who was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and was viewing photos on a laptop, looked from his editor to the detectives, concern etched on his face. "Oh, okay. Did you find her? Is she okay?"

Patrick Phillips didn't answer, instead taking his leave, letting the detectives be the bearers of bad news.

Upon hearing what had happened to his co-worker, Todd's face paled. "She's dead?"

"Unfortunately. It looks like foul play," Tristan explained.

Todd looked down at his hands. "I was kind of hoping she'd be okay, you know? Like she'd just pop back in from a vacation she forgot to tell everyone about."

Stevenson asked, "When was the last time you heard from her?"

The man looked back up. "A couple days before her mom called looking for her. She came to work. We had lunch in the break room."

"Any indication something was up?"

He shook his head. "No, not at all. I mean, she jumped and quickly checked her phone every time she got a message, but everybody does that. And she's a reporter, so it could be a contact about a story."

"Did she ever mention getting a different job?" Tristan asked.

Their interviewee shook his head. "No, she never said anything. Everyone was surprised when she resigned all of a sudden like that." He muttered, "You should talk to her boyfriend."

"Why's that?" Tristan asked.

Todd said, "Something isn't right about that guy."

"So you've met him?"

"Yeah, a couple times, Avery brought him to company parties. I never liked him."

"Because you liked his girlfriend?"

"No, that's not it—well, not really. I don't know, I just don't trust him."

Warily, Tristan said, "You aren't the only one. Did Avery ever seem to feel that way about Sean?"

"No," Todd answered. "I think she worked too hard. She was too busy to notice."

"Her sister seems to think she was going to breakup with him anyway and get something started with a guy from work. Do you know anything about that?"

Todd stared. "She was? Did her sister say who the guy was? The guy from work?"

"No. Do you think it was you?"

"Maybe, we do flirt, and we talk about personal stuff. And if she was single I wouldn't hesitate to ask her out."

"But you're sure she never mentioned it to you? No hints?" Mark asked. "No pact to breakup with significant others so you could be together?"

Todd shook his head. "No. We didn't have any murder-suicide plans either, if you're wondering."

"What were you doing October twenty-eighth?"

"Hold on," Todd said, turning in his swivel chair to grab a file folder from an organizer on his desk. He flipped through a stack of photos that filled the folder. Checking the dates stamped in the corner, he pulled out one of a football game. He focused on the jersey's the players wore. "Let's see, the New England Patriots were warming up for a game." He picked up a schedule of games and added, "They were in Detroit. So that's where I was."

"We'll let you know if we need anything else," Stevenson said, ending the interview.

When they'd exited the building, Tristan's phone started to vibrate from his pocket. "DuGrey," he answered.

"She's a reporter," Rory hissed.

"Who's a reporter?" he asked.

"Avery Fox," she said. "Like you didn't already know."

"I may have heard something about it," he admitted.

"She made someone mad for her art and she paid with her life."

"And you call me dramatic," Tristan said as they went back out into the cold.

"What else could it be?"

"Oh I don't know, any myriad of things. You shouldn't jump to conclusions. How many times do I have to tell you?"

Not listening, Rory continued, "I've been here all afternoon, digging up everything Avery has ever written."

"Where is here?" he asked, unlocking his car doors and getting in.

"The library. Did you know she covered city hall?"

"I did not."

"Really?"

"No, not really. We just finished talking with the _Post's_ version of Jimmy West."

"You did? So you agree, you think it had something to do with what she was writing for work," Rory said in a self-satisfied tone.

"I didn't say that. You know we talk to everyone—which includes her employer. Which _happens_ to be a newspaper," Tristan said, starting the engine. Next to him, Mark turned the heat up. "That doesn't automatically mean her death was work related."

"But it's possible."

Tristan sighed in resignation. "Anything is possible."

"I knew it."

"I'd feel better if you sounded less excited about the prospect. It's borderline morbid."

"I'm not excited."

"Just really enthusiastic."

Rory went on, "Back when she was in college, she wrote about a bunch of the industries in the area that were polluting the air and the local river. So even back then she was holding big business accountable for their actions."

"Sounds like she's a real tree-hugger. But I doubt those businesses would wait this long to exact their revenge on her."

"I think it's still worth looking into," Rory said. "Leave no stone unturned, right?"

"Right," he agreed. "So why don't you keep digging from that angle, and I'll follow procedure as usual."

"What will you give me if I'm right?"

"What?"

"What's my reward if I'm right and you're wrong?"

"The satisfaction that you're better than me?"

"That isn't quite the incentive I was going for, but I guess I'll take it."

Tristan wrapped up the call quickly and turned his attention to his partner. "I think it's time we talk with this shady Sean Adams character."

"I was thinking the same thing." Mark went to work playing on the internet on his phone, searching for the business Aubrey had mentioned. When he found a match, he read off the address.

Fifteen minutes later, Tristan was searching for a place to park near a tall office building in Midtown Manhattan. It was another twenty minutes before he settled on illegally parking in a garage two blocks away that they walked through the lobby of the building. They took the first available elevator to the appropriate floor and followed the signs until they were at Sean Adam's office.

His receptionist turned from the filing cabinet she had pulled open when she heard them walk in. "Can I help you?"

"We'd like to speak with Mr. Adams," Tristan said.

The woman took a few steps over to her desk and bent down to look at her calendar. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked with a frown.

"No," he answered, showing her his badge.

"Oh, uh, well, he isn't in right now. He's out on a business call. But I can let him know you came by."

"We need to talk to him as soon as possible."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not long thereafter, the detectives walked off the elevator and proceeded to the squad room. Their boss, Captain Meyer stepped out of his office and met them at their desks. "DuGrey, Stevenson," he greeted. "There's someone here to talk to you." He nodded over to one of the interrogation rooms, where a man was waiting for them at the table.

They hung their coats and scarves on their chairs before heading to the small room. Tristan made the introductions as they took a seat across from a dark haired man in a suit. "How can we help you?"

"I got a message from my secretary, you wanted to speak with me," the man answered.

"Oh," Tristan said. "Sean Adams?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for getting back to us so quickly."

"What is this about detectives?"

Tristan caught himself before knitting his brows in confusion. The question should have had an obvious answer, so rather than give it away, he asked, "What do you think it's about?"

"Since you're involved, I suspect something illegal has happened," Adams answered smoothly.

"Mm-hmm," Tristan said slowly. "It has to do with your girlfriend, Avery Fox." For a split second, he could have sworn the man's eyes softened in relief.

"Avery, of course." All concern now, Adams asked, "Has there been a break in her case? We've all been so worried."

"You could say that," Stevenson said, slipping a photo of the dead woman across the table.

"My God," Adams said. "What happened?"

"A car was pulled out of the Hudson the other night. Avery was in the trunk. Looks like she tried to escape."

"Who would have done this?" Adams asked, looking from one detective to the other.

Tristan answered, "We were hoping you could help us with that."

"Absolutely, whatever you need," the man said quickly.

"How long were you in a relationship with Avery?"

Adams looked up, counting. "Six—no, seven months."

"How serious would you say you were?"

"We weren't living together or anything, but I stayed over at her place a couple nights a week. We were exclusive."

"Did she talk to you about quitting her job at the _Post_?"

"She was looking into some other jobs, but she didn't have anything lined up yet. Not enough to quit the job she had."

"Was she unhappy at the _Post_?" Mark asked.

Sean shook his head. "I don't think so. She'd worked there for several years. She was just ready to move on to something else."

"Avery's mother reported her missing when she didn't return her calls. When did you think something might have happened to her?"

"She didn't answer my calls either, but I thought she was immersed in some story for work. If that was the case, I didn't want to bother her. Her mother called my office the next day, wanting to know if I'd heard from her."

Tristan tapped his finger on the table for a moment. "Were you having any problems?"

"What kind of problems?"

"Relationship problems."

"No. We were great. Why?"

"We heard Avery was thinking about breaking up with you."

Adams's face twisted into a scowl. "Who said that?"

"Not important," Tristan said. "Did you know anything about it?"

"No," Sean said, crossing his arms. "Someone misinformed you. She wouldn't dump me for someone else."

Stevenson asked, "How are you so sure?"

"I treated her well. Any woman would be lucky to have me as their boyfriend."

Tristan only let the corner of his mouth lift slightly. "You think so?"

"Yes. I took her to the finest restaurants in the city, we like all the same television shows," Sean said. "And she and I went to Greece over the summer. She had no reason to be anything but happy with me. You're wrong about this."

The detectives let their interviewee stew for a moment before Tristan asked, "Where were you October twenty-eighth?"

"What day of the week was that?"

"Thursday."

"I was at a bar with some friends of mine," he supplied.

"You're memory's good," Mark commented. "You don't need to check your calendar?"

"No. I know where I was that night."

"Okay. We'll need the address of the bar."

"This is ridiculous," Adams said before writing down the address requested on a sheet of paper offered. When he sat back again, he seemed to take a concerted effort to calm down. "You've talked with her mother already?"

"This morning," Mark answered with a nod.

"How was she?"

"She got bad news about her daughter, so you can probably imagine."

"She must be devastated. I should go see her." Sean started to get up and put on his coat. "Let me know if you need anything else," he said as he moved toward the door to let himself out.

"We'll be in touch," Tristan said, watching him leave.

When they were alone, Stevenson commented, "You know, he does give me a bad feeling."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed with a nod. "He's very smooth and debonair, but kind of slimy at the same time. Like he can be fake whenever he wants."

Mark continued, "But will probably turn on you if you cross him."

Tristan thought for a moment. "You know who he reminds me of?"

"You?"

He ruefully glared. "No. I was going to say my dad."

"I can see what you mean." Mark got up and headed for the door. "But I stand by my statement."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Okay," Rory said, pulling her grocery list notepad out of her coat pocket, along with a pen. "We need everything." Her eyes hungrily scanned an aisle full of non-perishables. "Maybe we should have had dinner first."

"What were we going to eat?" Tristan asked, pushing the cart beside her.

"Good point." Rory headed straight for the fresh produce, where everything looked delicious. She shoved her notepad into her pocket to free both hands, then helped herself to a plastic bag and started filling it with heads of broccoli. Then she noticed the Brussels sprouts and grabbed another bag without bothering to close the first one with a twist tie.

Tristan, having strolled over to the bakery for bagels and bread, approached in time to watch his wife greedily collect a few tomatoes. When she emptied her full arms into the cart, he arched a brow at her. "Stocking up for winter?"

"It all looks so good," she answered. "Do you want some fruit? Grapes sound good. Ooh, and bananas." She turned to hunt for the fruit and returned to the cart after succeeding. "Okay, what's next on the list?"

"Everything."

"Oh right. I can't believe I didn't make a real list today. I was just so busy at the library, I forgot."

They turned the corner and almost skipped the health food aisles, when Tristan stopped and pointed a thumb to the side. "You didn't need any flak seed?"

Rory scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

"So this new phase you're going through doesn't include organic food?"

"No."

"That's a relief," he said as they continued.

She followed along down an aisle of junk food, stopping so he could consider the choices of prepackaged cookies.

"What looks good?" he asked.

She quickly scanned the pictures of sugar coated treats. "Eh, whatever you want. Cookies aren't really on the list."

Tristan tried to snatch her notepad away, but she held tight. "It says 'everything'. Everything includes cookies."

"Fine. Get some. I'll be in the cereal aisle." One she was down said aisle, she contemplated whether she wanted shredded wheat or Cheerios. By the time Tristan joined her, she'd decided on both.

It took them thirty minutes to finish the rest of their grocery shopping. Rory was fairly certain she could have finished in twenty if Tristan wasn't along to slow her down, but she didn't complain out loud, as he was her ride. They found the shortest check-out line and joined, resigned to waiting in line for the same length of time it'd taken them to do their shopping.

A few registers down, a woman was struggling with a little girl who was having a tantrum. Rory glanced over with her arms crossed, tapping her foot in annoyance. She muttered, "Just give her the candy."

"What?" Tristan asked, looking up from a magazine he'd picked up from the stand.

Rory tilted her head toward the crying child, who'd only gotten louder.

He glanced over. "Oh, I didn't notice."

"How could you not notice? Everyone in the store noticed."

"I work a few feet from a holding cell that is sometimes occupied by crazy people," he said. "You learn to tune it out."

"Well," Rory said, filling him in, "she wants a piece of candy, and it will get her to be quiet. It's obviously a win-win."

Tristan smirked. "Yeah, and then she'll learn crying equals treat. It's a good lesson. A piece of candy now, a pony in a few years."

"It's just a piece of candy. It's not that big of a deal."

He smiled and looked back down at his celebrity magazine. "Okay."

Rory glared at him a second before inching forward in the line.

"Hey, what do you think of BLT's for supper?" he asked a couple minutes later, looking at the contents of their basket. "We have everything and it'll be easy."

"Fine," she answered, starting to think about bacon. Then, "I want mashed potatoes with mine. And maybe no tomatoes. Or lettuce." She thought about it some more, happy with her choice and added, "And no bread."

"We didn't get potatoes."

"I'll be right back."

A little later, they were arriving home. Once parked outside their building, they rounded the car to the trunk and each picked up two heavy reusable bags. Tristan was about to close the trunk, when Rory stopped him. "Hey, there's just one more. We can get it all in one load."

"Are you going to carry that last bag?"

"No, you can do it. You're strong."

He grudgingly hung the bag from his arm, muttering, "I feel like a pack mule."

"Come on, you take that bag and I'll put everything away. You're off the hook," she said as they headed for the door next to the art gallery.

"See, now that's how an award system should work."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan sat his yellow legal pad on his desk after the briefing wrapped up. He clicked the end of his pen back and forth as he glanced around the squad room. The other detectives were going back to work at their desks, while the uniformed officers filed out to return to their floor.

At the next set of desks, the assistant district attorney was talking with a couple detectives about getting a warrant. Tristan leaned back in his chair to listen in. He heard Jacobs tell them the same thing he'd have told them when he heard them talking about their case over the weekend.

Jacobs abruptly turned and lifted the crook of his arm to shield a sneeze. After a coughing fit, he continued with what he was saying, his voice sounding pinched. Tristan pulled out a tissue from a box on his desk and stretched his arm out to offer it. The attorney took it and blew his nose. When Jacobs was finished, Tristan stood up and walked with him toward the hallway.

"You don't sound so good. Are you coming down with something?"

"I'm fine. It's just a cold," Jacobs said, slightly annoyed by the unwelcome companion.

"Are you taking medicine? What if you get worse?" Tristan asked. "What happens then?"

"What happens with what?"

"You have a trail coming up. What if you're too sick?" he asked.

"It's not that big of a deal," Jacobs said, harassed. He pressed the Up button to summon the elevator, and rolled his eyes when the detective followed him into the small space a moment later.

"Judge Wilson is a busy guy," Tristan said. "You can't expect him to reschedule for you. Will some other ADA get assigned to your case?" he asked. "Someone just walking in won't know what's going on. Is that a good idea?"

Jacobs stared at him blankly for a moment, then pulled his cellphone out of his pocket without a word and dialed. "It's Greg," he said. "I'm out. DuGrey wants the whole thing. He can have it."

Tristan's pulse started to beat harder and faster. It wasn't entirely comfortable. He frowned at the redheaded man as they got off the elevator at the next floor. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine," Jacobs said before ending his call. He unlocked his office door and turned back at Tristan. "It's all yours."

"What's all mine?"

"The trial." Jacobs made a show of brushing his hands together—washing his hands of the detective. "Finally, just what you've always wanted, and no one's standing in your way." He clapped a hand on Tristan's shoulder a bit roughly. "Don't blow it."

"I didn't ask for anything to be mine," Tristan argued.

The attorney ignored him. "Don't forget you and your dad are meeting with the judge this afternoon." He disappeared inside his office with Tristan left staring at the door.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory read through an article for a third time and highlighted one of the names mentioned. She also wrote the name on a growing list she'd been populating over the weekend.

"Are you reading every article that woman ever wrote?" Marie asked from her desk next to Rory's.

"All the ones I could track down. At her first job in New Hampshire, she was one of those reporters for the local news station who bothered public officials about how they were spending tax dollars." Rory continued, "Those reporters get in people's faces and expose their wrongdoing. Not everyone likes being held responsible for what they do. Someone might have been biding their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to exact their revenge on the reporter who ruined them."

"That's deep," Marie said. "And what does Detective Husband say about this theory?"

"He's following procedure."

"So sticking with family and friends?"

"Pretty much." She muttered, "Amateur. He'll be sorry." Deciding she was finished dissecting the article, she turned it upside-down and added it to a stack at the edge of her desk. With her highlighter poised over the next piece, she paused and pondered a moment. "I wonder if Avery was investigating something that she hadn't written yet—in which case, wouldn't be in any of these."

"Something or someone from city hall?" Marie asked.

"Possibly." Rory thought about it some more. "I think I'll go down there tomorrow to sniff around. Maybe some of the other reporters know something." She nodded, liking the idea more by the minute. "I'll just pretend I'm there to report on city hall."

"Undercover investigation is always fun."

Rory grinned and nodded at her colleague.

"You know, with a dead reporter and the chance it was about her job," Marie said, "I think we all need police protection. We're all upsetting people, and putting our lives on the line."

Rory smiled and glanced over. "I think you're right. Suddenly I feel less silly about this fake name I use for the cop beat." She picked up her cellphone and speed dialed her husband.

"DuGrey," he answered.

"Hey, Marie and I were just talking about how dangerous it can be for reporters, what with this _Post_ reporter getting killed, and all the people we make mad on a regular basis. So we think we need police protection."

"What?"

"You know, personal body guards. I would obviously get you out of convenience, but that leaves everyone else. Who do we need to talk to, to make this happen?"

"Are you serious?" Tristan asked. "I'm doing actual work here."

"Don't you care about our safety?" There was no answer, and she could no longer hear the precinct in the background. She looked down at her phone and saw the background picture. "I think he hung up on me," she said, setting the phone back down on her desk.

One of their younger colleagues, Kyle approached them. "Hey Rory, Jimmy said you have some notes on that story he assigned me last week—about some burglaries in Midtown."

Rory caught a whiff of Kyle's cologne and immediately wished he'd take a step back. "Yeah, I typed them up," she said. "Hold on." She clicked her computer mouse a few times, pulling up the document. "So you're feeling better this week?"

"Yeah, I'm as good as new."

Rory wished she could say the same. Her Sunday afternoon hadn't been the greatest. She thought she might have to call in sick today. Up until now though, she'd felt fine. Kyle's germs must have jumped over to her.

"It was pretty bad last week," he continued. "I thought I was dying. I think it was that bug everyone in Arts and Leisure had a couple weeks ago."

"Maybe," Rory said. It was just her luck for Kyle to pass it on to her. She hit print. "There you go, it's going to the printer."

"Thanks."

Her stomach started to churn. She wanted Kyle to get as far away as possible. "Jeez, did you bathe in cologne before you came to work this morning?"

"No," Kyle said with a frown, grabbing the front of his polo shirt and pulling it up to his nose for a sniff. "I didn't put that much on. Just a spritz." He turned to Marie. "Is it that bad?"

She shrugged and shook her head.

Rory stood up quickly and headed for the restroom before she lost her breakfast all over the newsroom.

"Good job, Kyle," she heard Marie say, "you made Rory sick."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around mid-day, Tristan and Mark walked into a dimly lit sports bar. A few patrons were sitting at tables, waiting for their lunch orders. The detectives went over to the bar, where a blonde guy who looked like he was barely old enough to drink was wiping down the counter.

"Excuse me," Tristan said, showing his badge. "We're trying to verify the whereabouts of someone who said he was here the night of a crime."

"Oh, uh, okay," the kid said, putting his rag down below the counter.

"Do you remember, or have any record of Sean Adams being here on October twenty-eighth. It was a Thursday."

"He comes in here a lot with his buddies. Let me grab the record book. I'll check that night," he said, and then he went through a door that led to the kitchen. When he returned, he was behind an older man.

"What seems to be the problem officers?" the barkeep asked. The younger man stood in the background, folding his arms and frowning.

"No problem," Mark said. "We just need to check the alibi of a guy who said he was here one night."

"Sean Adams?"

"Yeah," Tristan said, repeating the date for the barkeep. He kept his eyes trained on the man, even though the other bar employee had snuck back into the kitchen.

"He was here," the man said confidently.

"You don't need to check the record book or anything?" Tristan asked dubiously. "It was a few months ago. Surely you can't remember who comes in every night."

"Sean's a good guy. He gives me good business. He and his friends come in every Thursday."

"Without fail, every week?" Mark asked.

"Every week like clockwork. All of his friends will tell you the same thing, if you want to ask them," the man said confidently. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Out the corner of his eye, Tristan could see the first man reappear in the doorway with a book. He put his coat on, hiding the book inside, and disappeared in the back.

"Nope, that's it," Tristan answered. "Thanks." He and Mark turned to go then.

Sardonically, Mark commented, "I guess he alibis out then."

When they were back out in the cold, it was in time to see the blonde kid round the building from the alley.

He gestured with his head for them to join him, and walked a few steps away from the bar. When they caught up, he stopped to tell them, "He doesn't always come. That guy—Sean Adams. Sometimes it's just his friends." He pulled the book out of his coat and handed it over, then shoved his bare hands deep inside his coat pockets.

Tristan took it and flipped back to the day in question, holding down the page to keep it from flapping in the harsh wind.

"He and his friends have a tab they keep open when they're here. The guy is like James Bond, he has the same drink every time he's here. If there isn't bourbon on the rocks on their tab, it means he wasn't there that night."

"You're sure?"

He nodded. "I'm usually the one who makes it for him."

Mark asked, "Are you sure none of his friends ever get the same drink as him?"

"Only Adams. If any of his friends started drinking it, he'd probably switch to something else. He's a good tipper, but I don't know, there's just something about him." He pointed on the page. "There's his tab, it's under his name."

Tristan read through the itemized list of drinks. "No bourbon." He glanced up at the kid. "So he wasn't there?"

"Nope, not that night."

"Can we borrow this?" Tristan asked, closing the record book.

"Yeah, it's from a few months ago, so no one should notice it's gone."

"We'll get it back to you before the end of the day," he said. "Thanks a lot."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

That afternoon, Tristan drove around the block surrounding the courthouse a third time, looking for a place to park. He got more anxious as each second ticked by. He didn't want to be late, that would get him off on the wrong foot straight away. He finally decided to settle for a city parking garage two blocks away, where he had to pay for a spot. He quickly took his gun off his hip and hid it under his seat. Then he grabbed a file folder from the passenger side seat and hopped out of the car.

He hastily walked down the sidewalk, glancing at the entrance of city hall as he passed. One of the council members was standing on the stairs, talking to a group of reporters who'd congregated around him. Tristan recognized one as a reporter who used to work in the same building as the _Daily News_. She was an Asian woman with long shiny black hair, but Tristan couldn't remember her name, as she no longer worked at Channel 13.

When he got to the courthouse, he jogged up the stairs and went into the lobby. He had to stop at the building's directory to find the room number of the judge's chambers. As he rode an elevator to the second floor, his palms started to sweat. When the lift let him out, he looked both ways down the long hall. He did a double take when he saw Jacobs sitting in a chair outside one of the rooms. It was with strange relief that Tristan walked toward the familiar face.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were out," he said, sitting down in the empty chair beside the redhead.

"Did you really think the DA would let you run free?"

"That's what you said earlier."

"He isn't stupid. He wants me to be there for this meeting. It'll look a little funny for you to go in there by yourself. I'm supposed to vouch for you."

"Oh," Tristan said without much fight in him to argue. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he didn't mind the backup. He glanced down the hall toward the elevator terminal. "Is my dad here yet?"

"No, but he still has five minutes."

Tristan drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "The boyfriend of our victim has a shaky alibi," he said, looking for conversation to distract him. "All his friends and the bartender insist he was there the night of the crime, but it looks like they might be lying."

Jacobs nodded once. "Can you place him at the scene?"

"No, not yet."

"So not enough for a warrant."

"I know that," Tristan said impatiently. "I wasn't asking for one. I was just making conversation."

The other man nodded again. "Nervous chit-chat, got it."

"I'm not nervous."

Jacobs glanced out the corner of his eye, and seeing Tristan's knee bouncing up and down, said, "Sure."

When the detective stilled suddenly, Jacobs looked in the direction of the elevator to see Harrison DuGrey approaching. When he joined them, he nodded as greeting. "Gregory. Tristan."

"Sir," Tristan said as aloof as possible.

Harrison checked his watch and leaned a shoulder against the wall, content to wait in silence. They only had to wait a few minutes before the door opened and an old man took a step out.

"Are you all my four o-clock?"

"Yes," they all answered, Tristan sitting up straighter. He and Jacobs stood and followed Harrison into the judge's chambers.

They filed into the office, the three men standing in front of the desk, where the judge had sat to face them. He read a note in front of him and said, "I understand the prosecuting and defending attorneys are related." He glanced up for confirmation.

"That's right, Your Honor," Harrison said. "He's my son."

Judge Wilson zeroed in on Tristan. "I didn't know you were a prosecutor."

"I'm not," Tristan admitted. "I'm a detective for the NYPD."

"And you're trying a case?" the judge said, creases forming between his grey eyebrows.

"Yes," Tristan said timidly.

Judge Wilson asked Jacobs, "Is this some sort of new auditioning process the district attorney is using and I'm just now hearing about it?"

"Oh no. Everyone still has to go through three rounds of interviews before they even get to the DA if they're trying to get a job." Jacobs jerked his head toward Tristan. "He's not special."

At that, both DuGrey men shot him a quick scowl.

The judge looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him again and then focused on Harrison. "You practice in Hartford, correct?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing in New York?"

Tristan cocked his head toward his father, raising a brow.

"Pro bono work. This isn't the first case I've taken here. And I'm licensed in both states."

Tristan pursed his lips and barely suppressed an eye roll, looking back to the judge.

"I can't say I like any of this, father and son going mono-e-mono. It borders on attorney malpractice."

Harrison spoke up again, "Opposing attorneys who are related is a common conflict of interest."

Tristan pulled out some documents from the folder he brought with him and added, "In State v. Kelley, a familial relationship between attorneys didn't impair the defendant's right to legal assistance."

The judge took the offered papers and perused them.

Tristan continued, "There won't be any inappropriate communication between us," Tristan said. "We don't have a relationship. He's just another defense lawyer to me."

"Still," Judge Wilson said, "I have a bad feeling one of you is putting your personal interests ahead of your professional responsibilities." He looked from father to son, where his gaze lingered. "I'm leaning toward you, detective, since this isn't your profession."

"I can assure you, my responsibility is with the State," Tristan said. "I'm not getting anything out of this."

"And if I may interject, Your Honor," Jacobs said. "This isn't a new development for him. He's been a problem for me as long as I've known him. If he had his way, he'd do his job and mine."

The judge turned to stare at Tristan expectantly.

The blonde grudgingly nodded and slowly said, "He's right. I constantly interfere with his work." He kept his gaze steadily on the honorable judge, ignoring his father's smug smirk. As though it pained him greatly to say it out loud, he slowly added, "I want to argue a case in court."

The judge narrowed his eyes at Tristan, who did his best not to bristle. After considering them a moment, he said, "I don't have any control over the personnel of the district attorney's office." To Harrison, he said, "Have your client sign a waiver."

Tristan's heart beat faster, as relief washed over him at clearing the first hurtle.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At home that evening, Rory was in her newly stocked kitchen. She was contemplating what to make for dinner as she walked past the sink. Her arm accidently brushed a precariously placed coffee pot, which then fell to the floor, crashing into pieces. She gasped in horror and stared down at the shards. "_No_." She carefully squatted down to pick up the pieces, using the largest piece to hold the others.

After a minute, she sniffled and wiped the corner of her eye on sleeve. "This is the saddest day of my life."

Once she'd picked up as much as she could, she pouted a little as she threw the broken pieces in the trash and retrieved the vacuum to clean the finer pieces of glass.

Tristan walked through the front door about an hour later, when Rory was mashing potatoes in a large pot at the kitchen island.

"Hey," he said, taking off his coat and gloves. "What do I smell frying?"

"Bacon," she answered.

"Is that a derogatory comment directed at me?" he asked, joining her in the kitchen. "That's offensive."

"No, it's what I'm making for dinner," she said, nodding over at slices of bacon sizzling on the griddle.

"With mashed potatoes," he said, watching her smash. "Again."

"Sorry. I just felt like it again. But I thought of you this time and made some chicken and a salad."

"Thank you," he said. He put his folders on the counter top. He went to the coffee maker and looked over at the now empty sink. "Where's the coffee pot?"

Guiltily, she said, "It jumped out of the sink and broke."

"Was it depressed?" he asked. "We could have gotten it help if we'd known."

She shook her head. "I knocked it out."

"Tonight of all nights there's no coffee to keep me up? That's not good."

"Oh, how did your meeting with the judge go?"

"I'm in," he answered. "And in a turn of events, Jacobs is out."

She stared. "What do you mean? You finally high-jacked the whole thing?"

Tristan shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "No, I didn't push him out. I only asked if he was sick and what would happen with the trail. He just backed out."

Without thinking, she asked, "Are you going to be able to do it? All on your own?"

"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown.

"Not that you can't, because you can. I'm sure you can," she said quickly. "It's just that, you've never argued a case at all, and now you're going to do it by yourself?"

He considered her question, tapping his fingers on the counter. After a minute he stopped and said, "I'm not going to think about it. I'm just going to do it."


	3. I Hate Everybody (But You)

**Title**: It's Five O'clock Somewhere

**Chapter**: I Hate Everybody (But You)

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

_The older I get, the less time I want to spend with the part of the human race that didn't marry me. –Robert Brault_

**I Hate Everybody (But You)**

Tristan reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner to his desk. He gathered the papers that were scattered all around, shoving them in the file folders he was carrying back and forth from work every day. He stopped when he thought he heard a noise coming from down the hall. He frowned and listened closely. There was definitely a sniffle.

He picked up his things and walked quietly toward the kitchen. He found his wife at the edge of the living room, standing in front of the fish tank with tears running down her cheeks. His brows lowered in concern. "Hey, what's the matter?" he asked, reaching over to set his files on the kitchen counter and returning to put an arm around her shoulders.

She sniffled and pointed. "One of our fish died."

He turned his attention to the tank, and sure enough, one of the goldfish was floating belly up at the surface of the water. He hoped she hadn't noticed the other fish lying on the gravel at the bottom of the tank near a plant. He glanced down at her, making a mental note to find time for a trip to the pet store.

"What did we do wrong?" she asked. "We fed them and changed the water."

With his free hand, Tristan turned off the tank light. "It was probably just his time. I'm sure he had a good long life."

"But we haven't had him very long," she protested. Her face contorted and she turned to him and buried her face in his chest.

"Yeah, but we don't know how long he was at the pet store before we got him," he reasoned. "He might have been there a long time and we just bought him at the end of his life."

"You think so?" she asked, lifting her head to look up at him.

"I do," he said. "Plus, he probably came from one of those fish mills anyway." He steered her into the kitchen, looking for something to distract her. His first instinct was to make coffee, but that was out of the question, considering the broken pot. He made another mental note.

He grabbed a napkin and handed it to Rory so she could dry her eyes and blow her nose. "Thanks," she said, taking a seat on one of the stools. "It's just a little sad."

"Don't worry, we'll get a new fish, like we always do," he said, going to the refrigerator. "Do you want some bacon?"

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. "No. Toast would be fine."

"Toast it is," he said, pulling out the necessary appliance from a lower cabinet and getting the bread from the pantry. He put a couple slices in and got the butter and a knife. He slid both over to Rory, then checked his watch. "I need to get going. Will you be okay?" He walked around to her side of the island and stroked her hair, looking down at her with furrowed brows.

"Yeah," she said with a nod, wrapping her arm around his waist. "Thanks for making me toast."

"You're welcome," he said. He leaned in to give her a kiss and picked up his file folder before putting on his coat and scarf.

He was out the door, and within twenty minutes he was sitting at his desk at the precinct. "I want to go over your testimony during lunch today," he told his partner, who had not yet sat down.

"Fine," Mark said, unbuttoning his navy suit jacket and taking a seat.

"Oh, and I have to stop by the pet store before I go home today. Help me remember."

"Did your fish die again?"

"Yeah, one of them. And I think the other one isn't long for this world. The water change must have freaked them out." Tristan shook his head. "I don't know what Rory's deal is, but I found her crying in front of the fish tank this morning. They die pretty regularly, so I don't know why she's taking it so bad this time." He added, "I just hope she doesn't give me whatever's been going around the _Daily News_ all winter."

Mark, after a pause, glanced up. "She's been getting sick?"

"Yeah, along with the rest of the metro staff."

"When?"

"I just said, all winter."

"That isn't what I meant."

"What?" Tristan asked, glancing up vaguely.

Mark shook his head. "Never mind." Changing the subject, he said, "We need to go have a chat with Sean Adams, see what he has to say about his alibi. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll lawyer up."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"What are you reading now?" Marie asked, passing behind Rory, who was sitting at her desk in the newsroom with more articles in front of her, highlighter in hand.

"City hall stuff," Rory answered. "I'm going down there today to snoop around, so I have to look like I belong there. I won't be able to sell it if I don't know anything about city politics."

"Oh yeah, your investigation," Maria said, sitting down at her own desk and taking a sip of her coffee. "What happened to those articles you were looking into from when Avery was writing about pollution?"

"Eh, she wrote about that stuff ages ago," Rory said flippantly. "I think we all knew that was a long shot. The city hall angle is much more current and plausible."

"What about the person on staff we have to actually cover city hall?"

"Julie?" Rory asked, stopping what she was doing to look up. She scanned the newsroom, zeroing in on a young blonde woman a few desks down. "Hey Julie."

The girl turned to Rory. "Yeah?"

"Were you planning on going down to city hall today?"

"Yeah," Julie answered with a nod. "There's a subcommittee meeting at one, and I was hoping to talk with Councilwoman Maureen Glover about her proposed city ordinance before that."

"Could I do it instead?"

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of you," Rory said. "I'm getting pretty deep into a murder investigation, and I want to sniff around city hall." A thought hit her. "Hey, you probably knew Avery Fox from covering the same beat. Do you know anything about her?"

The girl shrugged. "Not really. I didn't talk to the other reporters that much. You might want to try that Asian chick who used to work for Channel 13 though. I've seen them talking a few times."

"Does Asian chick have a name?"

"Wendy something."

"Ugh, Wendy Lu," Marie said from Rory's other side.

"Oh right. Her," Rory said with matched enthusiasm. "I guess it won't hurt to talk to her."

"But what am I supposed to do today if you go to city hall?" Julie asked uneasily.

Rory looked back over to her. "Work on your next story," she suggested. "Or you know, go get a coffee and take a break. You can still write the article, I'll just get the notes for you. It'll be a collaborative effort."

"Should we ask Jimmy if it's okay first?" Julie asked, creases forming between her eyebrows. She glanced over at their editor's office door.

"Oh don't worry about him," Rory said with a wave of her hand. "If he asks you anything, just send him to me."

"Uh, okay," the young woman said. "I guess I'll just forward you the agenda for the meeting—if you want to prepare," she said, returning to her computer.

"Great, thanks," Rory said, spinning her chair back to her desk.

Marie gave her colleague a sidelong glance. "I guess you didn't catch whatever Kyle had last week. He thought he was dying. You're perfectly fine."

"I guess I had a different bug," Rory said. "Either that, or he was exaggerating. Let's face it, men are babies. All it takes is a sour throat and they're lying on the couch, asking you to make soup."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

It was mid-morning before the detectives tracked down Sean Adams. The trip to his office was once again futile, and required some cunning persuasion to get his secretary to tell them where he was. They walked into a Midtown restaurant and told the hostess who they were looking for. She led them through the dining room, weaving their way through tables of businesspeople on their lunch break.

Sean caught sight of them before they made it to his table, where he was dining with another man in a suit. He stood and intercepted the two men before they could reach him.

"Detectives," he greeted. "Have you made a break in Avery's case?"

"Actually," Tristan said, "we need to know where you really were the night she died."

"I already told you, I was at the bar with some friends."

Tristan shook his head. "Evidence suggests you're mistaken—or lying. You weren't there that night."

"What evidence?" Sean asked. "I assure you, I'm not lying. I was at the bar. I go there every week."

"But you didn't order your drink," Mark said. "Bourbon on the rocks?"

Adams looked unimpressed. "So? Do you think I drink the same thing every time?"

"That's what we heard."

"From whom?"

"That's not important."

"Well I'm sorry, but someone is remembering incorrectly. Perhaps they're confusing me with someone else." Adams continued, "I'm sure if you go back to the bar, everyone will tell you they saw me there that night."

"See, that's the thing," Tristan said. "Almost everyone did say you were there—all your friends swore they saw you. But we got some conflicting information."

"Someone lied then."

"That's exactly what we were thinking," Mark said with a smirk.

"Check again, I'm sure whoever got it wrong will think really hard and remember me being there," Adams said again. "Now if you'll excuse me, detectives, I'm in the middle of a business meeting."

Before he could get away, Tristan said, "About that, what is it you do for a living?"

"I consult."

"About what?" Stevenson asked.

"Business. My clients have problems. I fix them."

"Can you be any more specific?" Tristan asked.

"No," Sean said, leaving without another word to return to his table.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that day, Rory stood amongst a group of journalists outside the office of a city council member. She sized up the other reporters, recognizing a couple from local news stations. They eagerly waited with their cameramen and notecards, ready to attack, it appeared to Rory.

She did her best to look like she belonged there. It was like her first day on a new beat, or starting at a new school. She didn't want to stick out. She had to admit though, it was unlikely anyone would guess she was really there to investigate a homicide. Plus, she had a cover story.

Another reporter joined their ranks at Rory's side. She had long shiny black hair, and with a small jolt of anticipation, Rory recognized her as Wendy Lu—formerly of Channel 13, which shared a building with the _Daily News_. If Rory wasn't mistaken, Wendy hadn't worked there in a year or two. She got confirmation when Wendy bent down to pull a microphone out of a duffle bag marked with a number '8' on every side. When she looked up and saw the brunette watching her, her brows furrowed.

"You cover city hall?" Wendy asked.

"No," Rory answered. "I'm just filling in for Julie. She's sick this week. Something's been going around the newsroom."

The Asian woman looked smug and disinterested all at once. "You still work at the _Daily News_?"

"Yes," Rory said, slightly defiant. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," Wendy said with a shrug. "Most journalists would have moved on by now, that's all. But there's no shame in staying where you're comfortable."

Rory's brows knit involuntarily. "It was my choice to stay. I take the editor's place whenever he's out of the office." She raised her chin an inch. "And I cover the United Nations. So I have more responsibilities now."

"Hey, you don't have to get defensive."

"I'm not."

"Okay." Wendy smirked.

Rory shook her head slightly and turned back to the closed office door. She was starting to remember why she never cared for the other reporter.

The door swung open suddenly, and a short stalky woman wearing a pantsuit with a purple shell under her jacket walked out. As she made her way down the hallway, the reporters started asking questions and walking with her. It was no United Nations press conference or crime scene where the police knew her, so Rory hastened to keep up. It'd been years since she last followed a public figure around. She wasn't in a hurry to return to the horse and pony show. Still, she had promised notes to her co-worker, so she dutifully scribbled down the councilwoman's answers and took out her copy of the agenda as she found a seat for the meeting.

A few council members spent an hour and a half discussing the details of a new city ordinance, and when the meeting concluded, the reporters fired off some more questions. Julie had written a few questions at the bottom of her agenda, and Rory added a couple of her own, which she asked—when she got the chance, that is. The other reporters barley paused a beat.

When the councilmembers stood to leave, Rory glanced at her constituents, wondering if any of them knew anything about Avery Fox. Unfortunately, Julie had mentioned Wendy. More, she was the only one Rory had rapport with. Now wasn't the time to be picky, so Rory slowly got her things together while Wendy prepared her report—probably for the evening news, as it wouldn't make the mid-day slot. The reporter read her self-prepared script a few times before reciting it in front of the camera.

"Let me do that again," she told the cameraman, who counted down from three again. She took three more takes before she was content, and then started to put her things away.

When she was finished, and stood back up, Wendy turned and spotted Rory, who pretended not to be watching. "Do you need something?" she asked.

"Oh, uh, no," Rory said quickly. "Nice report. I see you're quite the perfectionist. I am too."

Wendy stared.

Rory rambled on, "Uh, I was actually just thinking I haven't seen you in—what is it—a year or two? So I was wondering if you wanted to catch up."

"Catch up?"

"Yeah, catch up. You know, two old friends—or, uh, acquaintances—sitting down and chatting about the current state of their lives." She pointed in the general direction of the elevator terminal. "I saw a coffee shop downstairs next to the lobby." She added, "If you have some time."

Wendy glanced from side to side, as she put her duffel bag over her shoulder. "Uh, okay," she said slowly.

"Great," Rory said, leading the way to the elevator.

"It's Veronica, right?" Wendy asked.

"Yeah," Rory answered. It was the pseudonym her mother came up with for her to use on her crime reports. She had never thought it was necessary, but was more comfortable under the current circumstances.

After a quiet ride down, they joined the line at the coffee stand and looked up at the menu behind the counter. Not wanting anything with a bunch of sweet caramel or whipped topping, Rory ordered a plain coffee. Behind her, Wendy got a latte.

Rory went over to a table near the window and took a seat, hanging her coat over the back of her chair. "So how have you been?" she asked pleasantly, once their drinks were served.

"Fine," Wendy answered, keeping her coat on.

"I've been fine too," Rory said, even though she hadn't been asked. "I'm still at the _Daily News_, as you noticed." When the Asian woman made no attempt to converse further, she continued, "So, Channel 8, huh?"

"Yeah, I've been there for two years."

"Do you like it there?"

"It's a better position than I had at Channel 13," Wendy said. "I don't have to do those stupid fluff pieces." She muttered, "Or cutesie up stories with puns."

"That's good," Rory said with a nod. "Sounds like an improvement." She took a long gulp of coffee to compensate for the lack of conversation. When she put her cup down, she asked, "Did you hear about that reporter from the _Post_ that was found dead last week? I understand she wrote about city hall, so maybe you knew her—Avery Fox."

Wendy picked up her stick and quickly stirred her latte. "They found her? I thought she went missing."

"She did. But they found her, and it turns out she was killed last fall. So you did know her?" Rory pressed.

"We were acquainted."

Rory let that sink in for a moment, not wanting to sound too eager. "Do you know if she was writing anything special? Maybe investigating something at city hall?"

Wendy shrugged. "I'm not sure. I don't really read the _Post_. It's so sensational—like the tabloids," she said. "But you know about that, the _Daily News_ is the same way."

Rory's brows moved closer together. "Just the format, not the content. We report legitimate news," she said. "And, our articles get quoted by national news anchors all the time—even in _The New York Times_."

Wendy rolled her eyes.

Rory hated how her defenses always went up when she talked to Wendy. It was like it didn't matter what she did, the other woman would always look down her nose at Rory. "Anyway, you journalists reporting city politics, that's important news. Do you guys ever make people mad?"

"Don't we all?" Wendy asked rhetorically. "There's always someone trying to hide something or cover up a misdeed."

"So do you think that's what happened to Avery? She made someone angry?"

Wendy's lazy gaze focused on Rory. "You're sure interested in Avery," she commented. She gave Rory a blank stare. "Oh my God, you're still writing on the police beat."

Rory's brows lowered. "What's wrong with that?"

A small smile played at Wendy's lips, and she said, "Nothing. Is that why you're really here?"

"I'm here to sit in for a colleague," Rory said, holding tight to her alibi.

Wendy took a long sip of her coffee and glanced out the window before she asked, "Do the police know anything about how she died?"

"She was in the trunk of a car that was pulled from the Hudson River," Rory answered. "She was dead for a few months."

"Any suspects?"

"They're looking into family and friends," she answered vaguely so as not to hand over information to anyone over at Channel 8. Although, it was also all she knew. She should probably make a call when she got back to the newsroom, she thought.

Wendy slowly stirred her latte with her stick again before she put it back on her napkin. "There were a couple city council members Avery did seem interested in."

Rory perked up. "Oh yeah? Which ones?"

"Thaddeus Black and Peter Jacobs," Wendy said. "I saw her waiting outside their offices before and after council meetings."

"Was she investigating something on them?"

Wendy shrugged. "I don't know. Could be."

It was worth looking into, Rory thought, repeating the two names to herself over and over so she wouldn't forget. She didn't want to write their names down outright in front of the other reporter.

Wendy sat back in her chair. "You were really good at the cop beat, weren't you?"

"Yes," Rory said slowly, caught off guard at the compliment.

"Well of course you were. You had quite an _in_ with the police, if I remember correctly."

"I have a contact, yes," Rory said uneasily. She took a sip of her coffee, hoping the other woman would drop it before insinuating anything.

The ring on her left finger caught Wendy's eye. "You got married."

Rory nodded and glanced at her ring. "Yup. A couple years ago."

"Congratulations," Wendy said. "So how does that work?"

Rory frowned. "How does what work?"

"How do you keep your police source happy without your husband finding out?"

There it was. Rory ground her teeth, her jaw was clenched so tight. Deciding not to get upset by anything Wendy had to say to her, she calmly took another sip of her coffee. "It works out pretty well for him, actually."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At his desk that afternoon, Tristan drew a line through a sentence of a paragraph he planned on being his opening statement. He tapped the end of his pen on his desk as he read through it without the part he'd just deleted. Not liking it, he crossed out another sentence and wrote one to replace it.

Across from him, Mark lifted up one of the record book pages they'd copied from the bar where Sean Adams said he was. "Look at this," he said, handing it across the desks.

Tristan took the offered papers his eyes went straight to the places his partner had highlighted. "That kid was right, Adams does tip well."

"Yeah, even on the nights he isn't there."

"Maybe the bar has excellent service," Tristan said.

"Or maybe it's hush money."

"I wonder what Adams wants to keep quiet." He shook his head. "I wish we had his financials."

"I wish we knew what kind of consulting he did with his clients," Mark said. "His website isn't very informative. It's really vague."

"Just like Avery's sister said. Not that it makes him guilty of anything."

After a couple minutes, Tristan's attention wandered back to the trial case. He'd been trying to contact a witness all morning without luck. He glanced over at his partner. "I think my dad has a witness who won't talk to me," he said. "Could you try to call her to set something up? Her name is Janice Summers. Maybe she'll talk to you."

"Fine."

"Just go over the facts."

"Do you want to be there for it, if I get a hold of her?"

Tristan shook his head. "I have some other things to work on."

There was a brief pause. Then Mark said, "Okay."

Tristan returned to his statement and read through it again, mouthing along in practice. He shook his head impatiently. He wasn't sure of himself. He needed someone to tell him whether or not he was on the right track. He rolled his eyes at the first person who came to mind. It was only out of proximity that he thought of him, not because Tristan would ever want to ask him for anything.

Conceding to the fact no one else was around, Tristan picked up his sheet of paper and got up, heading toward the elevator terminal. Not patient enough to wait, he went to the stairwell and took them two at a time up to the next floor. He went to the office door of the assistant district attorney and knocked. Without waiting for admittance, he went in and sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

Greg Jacobs was busy typing on his computer and didn't look away from the screen. In acknowledgement of the disruption, he said, "Where did you learn to barge in whenever and wherever you want? You can't do it when you're working. And I'm sure your parents taught you better."

"Can you read through this?" Tristan asked. He sat the paper with his writing on the desk.

Jacobs turned so his shoulders were square, facing Tristan. He didn't touch the paper though, nor did he look at it. He kept his eyes on the detective. "What are you asking me to do?"

"I just said, read through that and let me know if it sounds all right."

"No, I mean in the broadest sense, what are you asking of me?"

Tristan stared impatiently, then narrowed his eyes questioningly.

"I'll give you a hint," Jacobs said. "It starts with an 'h'. You're asking for my . . ." he said, hanging onto the last word for Tristan to fill in the blank, his brow arched expectantly.

"You and I have never had the kind of relationship where we finish each other's sentences," Tristan reminded him.

"Help," Jacobs said impatiently. "You want my help."

"I don't want it."

"I know, and that makes it even better. You _need_ it." Jacobs nodded his head. "After all these years of being a pain in the ass, you're not the hot shot you thought you were. You need _my_ help. And here I thought you knew it all."

Tristan clenched his jaw.

Sardonically, Jacobs said, "Oh how the tables have turned."

Tristan tried to reach over and snatch the document away, but Jacobs was faster, picking it up and holding it out of reach. "You could just say no," Tristan muttered.

"I didn't say I wouldn't," Jacobs said. "I just want to know what I'm doing."

Tristan took a breath and counted to ten, trying his best to retain his composure. A tiny voice in the back of his head whispered about getting what he deserved . . . something along the lines of getting treated the way he had treated others. It was coming back on him now.

First his dad, now Jacobs, Tristan thought. It was too much smug self-satisfaction all around. The little voice reminded him it was usually a trait he walked around with himself. Surely he wasn't as annoying though.

Tristan steadily—if reluctantly—looked the other man in the eye. Slowly, he said, "I need your help."

The redhead smirked and put the paper back on the desk in front of him. Before he read it though, he said, "You know how Clarence Thomas broke seven years of silence to say something about a lawyer—something about how the guy wasn't any good just because he went to Yale?"

Tristan shrugged. "Yeah."

"He probably wasn't talking about you," Jacobs said, feigning a reassuring tone. "I mean, I can't say for sure, but it's very unlikely."

Tristan narrowed his eyes and looked away.

Finally reading what Tristan wrote, Jacobs didn't get very far before he sighed heavily and picked up a pen and drew a line through a word, and then wrote above it.

Tristan defensively sat up taller and gawked over the desk, trying to see what had been crossed out. "What?"

"Nothing. Just your wording."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's too technical." Jacobs looked up at him. "Come down from your ivory tower. Your job is to educate the jury, not impress Daddy with the legal vocabulary you remember from law school."

Tristan scowled. "That isn't what I'm trying to do."

"Then keep it simple stupid. You did the same thing when you were on the witness stand last summer. Use words everybody knows."

"Fine, I'll be sure to dumb it down."

"Great," Jacobs said, continuing to read. After he'd crossed out a few more words and phrases that needed simplifying, he handed it back to Tristan. "How's everything else coming along?"

"Okay, I think," Tristan answered. "I was thinking who my dad will probably use as witnesses, and one of them won't talk to me."

"Did you send letter?"

"No, I just called. I don't have much time before the trial starts."

"You should send a letter next time—have your request in writing."

"Okay," Tristan said slowly. "I'm having Stevenson try to meet up with her."

Jacobs stared for a second. "Are you?"

"Yeah." Tristan felt paranoid by the question. "Was that wrong?"

"Nope. It's the right thing to do. What are you going to do if she doesn't talk with you guys before the trial?"

It seemed like a quiz question to Tristan. He answered, "Use her bias for the defense against her."

Jacobs nodded. "Good."

Tristan couldn't help but relax slightly at the positive feedback. Feeling as though he had an opportunity, he remained seated to discuss a few more things he was unsure about.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory stepped off the elevator at the twenty-first precinct and walked out to the squad room. She went over to her husband's workspace to find his desk unoccupied, so she sat down in the empty chair next to his partner instead and started unbuttoning her coat.

"Hey, where's that guy?" she asked, jerking her head toward the chair with Tristan's winter outerwear draped over the back, as well as his charcoal suit jacket hanging over an arm. "He isn't answering my calls."

Mark glanced up briefly toward Rory and then desk across from him. He lifted a shoulder. "Upstairs, I guess." He went back to whatever he had in front of him. "He was here working—not on _our_ work—and was shaking his head and muttering to himself, when he got up and left. He didn't tell me where he was going."

"He's been muttering to himself at home too," she said. "And staying up late. I don't know how he can function. All I want to do is hibernate all winter."

"Sleepy?" Mark asked.

"Yeah. I think it's the short days of winter."

"Ah." He went on, "I heard you had a death in the family. My condolences."

She stared for a second, and then blinked. "What?"

"Your goldfish."

"Oh, right. Yeah, one of them died today. I think the other one might be sick too. He wasn't looking good. I've never been able to nurse them back to health after they lay down." Rory opened her bag and pulled out a notebook. "So, did you guys learn anything new today?"

The pen in Stevenson's hand stopped and he raised his brow at her. "Anything new with what?"

"Your case. Avery Fox," she reminded him. "Do you have any more suspects or leads?"

The corner of his mouth curved ruefully. "No comment."

"What do you mean, no comment? Nothing new?"

"I mean I have nothing to tell you."

"But I need an update. I haven't heard from Tristan all day, and he hasn't told me the latest."

"Good for him."

Rory frowned. "Come on, we're friends."

"So?"

"Good friends," she persisted. "In fact, Tristan just said the other day he thinks of you as a brother, which kind of makes me your sister-in-law."

"Kind of, but not really."

"Either way, we're close. I'm closer to you than anyone else in this room at the moment," she said, gesturing around her to all the desks belonging to other detectives.

"I think close is a relative term."

"_I_ found some leads today," she told him matter-of-factly. "Good leads. If you tell me what you know, I'd be willing to trade information."

"Sorry, I leave the bartering to the lawyers."

Rory stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to admit to joking around. When he didn't, she asked, "You really aren't going to tell me anything?"

"That's correct."

"But—" Rory stopped and her shoulders dropped.

Mark smiled at her pleasantly. "Did you assume I would?"

"Maybe. I already cultivated a source," she whined. "And as his partner, doesn't that make you a source by association?"

"I don't think that's how it works, but I'm not a journalist." With a quizzical expression, he asked, "Cultivating a source? Is that what you called that?"

"The rest wasn't on purpose," she insisted. "It just happened on accident."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure he was always going to tell you way too much. If he didn't have you, he'd be trying to get you, probably by whatever means necessary."

"And you think I'd trade a date for information?" Muttering to herself, she said, "I'm sick of people saying that today."

Mark lifted a shoulder. "I don't know, maybe." He thought about it for a moment, and his eyes glazed over. "I just imagined what it might be like if you lasted four years without giving in," he said. "For my sake, I'm glad you caved sooner rather than later. I don't think I could have taken it." He blinked a few times, shaking himself out of his stupor.

Rory pressed on, "I know you don't generally care for reporters, but I thought by now you'd have softened."

Mark grinned again. "Because of you?"

"Well, yeah."

"That's cute."

"It's not like I thought I changed your opinion of all reporters. Trust me, _I_ don't like all reporters. But I'm not all reporters. I'm just me."

"You say that like you're harmless."

"I am."

"You want to be a harmless journalist?" he asked. "I didn't think there were any reporters out there who wanted to be called harmless. Isn't that kind of an insult in your business?"

"Okay," Rory said, trying to gain patience. "You're thinking in very black and white terms. Like I said, I'm not talking about all reporters—I can't stress that enough. I'm just talking about you and me. We know each other on a personal level, not just professional. There's some trust there."

"So you'd like the personal relationship to reap professional benefits," he said. "That's not what a good friend does. Friends don't use friends."

Rory crossed her arms, brows protruding out more than they already were. "That isn't what I'm saying."

"I know, but you still implied it. And I then read between the lines. I'm really good at that." He grinned again. "I always knew there was a reason you and I didn't get together—other than DuGrey being an obvious obstacle."

"You took me to dinner once," Rory said indignantly, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Yeah, but I didn't want to," he said. "And since you brought it up, why did you accept?"

She tried to think back while keeping her scowl in place. "I don't know. I can't remember."

"I think it was to make DuGrey jealous. I feel kind of used."

"You can't retroactively feel used," she argued. "It doesn't work like that. It's too late."

"I'll have to check the statute of limitations on that one."

A figure entering the squad room caught Rory's attention. "Thank God you're here," she told her husband as he approached. She scrambled to the seat next to his desk. "What's the latest on Avery Fox's case?"

Tristan glanced at her distractedly, slowing down without stopping. He jerked his head toward Mark. "Ask him. I need to talk to the captain."

Rory's jaw dropped as she watched him continue to the office, then turned back to Stevenson, who was smiling as he returned to his work.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Tristan was listening to someone on the other end of his phone. The kid from the bar—Andy—wanted to speak with the detectives.

When he'd finished the call and told Mark about it, his partner commented, "I guess we'll wait to hear what he has to say before we go talk with his boss again."

Within thirty minutes, Andy walked into the precinct in the same coat he'd been wearing the last time they saw him, timidly looking around for the two familiar faces. Tristan, with his view of the entrance, waved him over. He rolled around and gestured for the young man to sit in the chair next to Mark's desk. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I was wondering," Andy started, "did you guys talk to Robbie again?" he asked, referring to the older barman.

"Yeah," Mark answered. "We asked him about Sean Adam's alibi again, to see if he'd change his answer."

"I'm guessing he didn't," Andy said, running a hand through his blonde hair.

"Nope."

"Did you tell him what I said?"

Tristan rocked his head back and forth. "We implied we knew something. But we didn't tell him you talked to us. Why?"

"I got fired this morning."

Stevenson asked, "Did he give you a reason?"

Andy shrugged. "He said something about attendance, but I've only called off twice since I've worked there, and I was legitimately sick both times. Other than that, I'm never even late. I thought it might have something to do with Sean Adams instead."

Tristan reached back to take a sheet of paper from his desk and asked, "When you said he tips really well for his drinks, what did you mean by that? How much did he usually give you?"

"Twenty, at least," Andy said. "More if it was later in the night, after he'd had a few. He's given me fifty a couple times."

"But never hundreds at a time?" Mark asked, his brows lowered in concentration.

Incredulous, Andy answered, "No."

Tristan pointed to a highlighted line from the record book. "So you don't know what this is about?"

The younger man read the triple digit number at the end of the tab and his jaw dropped. He shook his head. "No. Is that a tip? I've never seen any of that, and we divide them up evenly at the end of the night." Andy looked from one detective to the other. "Did that guy leave that much every time?"

"It looks that way," Tristan answered. "Even when he wasn't there, he paid a few hundred dollars extra."

"I knew there was something shady with that guy," Andy said, shaking his head. "What was he paying for?"

"That's what we want to find out today," Mark said.

"I guess I might have said he was there if I knew about that," Andy admitted, nodding his head at the page from the record book.

After the detectives had shown the young man out of the precinct, they went straight to the bar. Taking a second for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, they walked over to the counter and asked one of the patrons if they'd seen the barman they were looking for. They were directed to a table in the back room.

They found the man, Robbie, taking a lunch order from a couple. When he was finished and looked up to see the detectives for a third time, his demeanor quickly changed. "What do you want now?" he asked, walking back to the main part of the bar and stepping behind the counter. He ripped the top sheet of paper of his notepad off and handed it to someone through a window to the kitchen. "I already told you, Sean Adams was here that night, just like he is every week."

"We aren't here to check up on that again," Tristan said reassuringly.

"Where's that younger guy?" Mark asked, looking around.

"Andy?" Robbie asked. "He's sick today."

"Flu?"

"Cold. He's all congested."

"How many times would he have to miss work before you fired him?" Tristan asked.

Robbie's face paled. "Not many. I can't have employees who are always missing work."

"How long has he been working for you?"

"Three years."

Mark said, "Twice in three years isn't that much. Surely you wouldn't be able to fire him for that?"

Robbie clenched his jaw.

"Are you sure he's sick?" Tristan asked. "Or was he becoming a liability? I bet you don't want to lose good business because of him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the barkeep said, wiping down the counter unnecessarily.

"I guess if Sean Adams was going to take his four hundred dollar tips somewhere else, I might get rid of the employee upsetting him, too," Mark said casually.

Robbie's eyes flashed at the detective. "I knew Andy was the one to talk to you."

"You admit Adams was paying you extra?" Tristan asked.

"I didn't say that."

Mark informed him, "You didn't have to. What was he paying you for? A permanent cover story?"

Robbie's eyes darted from one detective to the other. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"You aren't a suspect for anything," Tristan reminded him. "You're just obstructing justice—nothing a subpoena can't get around, if you want to do it that way."

The barman seemed to consider this for a moment, but he shook his head. "I'm not saying anything."

Tristan frowned. "Are you scared of this guy or something? You seem more loyal to him than anyone else. Is it really worth it?"

Robbie crossed his arms and kept his frown steadily on the detectives, who looked at each other and gave up for the time being.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

As the detectives walked toward the building back at the precinct a short while later, weaving through the other parked cars, Tristan readjusted his scarf to protect his neck against the cold wind. He felt his phone vibrating somewhere under his coat, so he dug it out to answer, "DuGrey?" He listened to his wife's request that he come home for lunch.

"I was going to meet with the medical examiner during my break," he told her.

But upon hearing what she had to say, Tristan suddenly stopped, intrigued and alert. "Uh, I'll be right there." He stuffed his phone into his pocket and turned to his partner, who'd stopped a couple steps ahead of him when he realized Tristan was no longer following.

"I have to go home," he said. When Mark frowned, Tristan quickly added, "For lunch. Rory wants to have lunch with me." He headed back to his black Camaro. "I'll be back."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later, Rory snuggled in closer to Tristan under the sheets and blanket of the bed in the spare room. Its status of only bedroom on the first floor made it the first one they'd come to when he arrived home.

Tristan's eyes roamed around contentedly. "I miss this room," he said musingly about the former master bedroom.

"It is a good room," she agreed.

"So much closer to the main part of the house." He asked, "Why did we need a new room?"

"Closet space." Closing her eyes, she added, "Your suits were taking over." The pillow was so soft, and Tristan was so warm. She turned to her side with her back against him so he could drape his arm over her.

Minutes after drifting off, she stirred at the sound of buzzing. Foggy headed, she nudged Tristan. His eyes were closed and by the steady rhythm, of his breathing, she knew he was asleep. "Wake up," she said.

He blinked a few times.

"Your phone is ringing."

He turned over and reached to the floor where his pants were to retrieve his cellphone from one of the pockets. "Hello?" he answered drowsily.

Rory could hear Mark on the other end of the line ask, "So are you planning to come back to work any time soon?"

Tristan held the phone away from his ear to check the time. "Damn it, I fell asleep," he muttered. He put the phone back in place to tell his partner, "Yeah, I'll be right there."

He ended the call and tossed the phone on the nightstand before getting out of bed. He pulled his pants on, glancing around to see if any other articles of his clothing were on the floor. Seeing only Rory's, he went out to the hall.

She checked the time on the nightstand clock and saw it had not been a few minutes, but over an hour. She rested her head back on the pillow, pulling the covers up to her chin. She felt no obligation to get up, and instead closed her eyes again, calling out to her husband, "Don't forget your phone's in here!"

When he came back to retrieve it, he asked, "Are you going back to work?"

"No. I can work here again."

"Must be nice," he mumbled, sticking his phone in his pocket. He bent over enough to give her a quick kiss. "Have a good afternoon."

"You too."

"Love you," he said, leaving her to fall back asleep.

Later, she woke up in the spare bedroom for a second time. She stretched and sighed, still not wanting to get up. But she checked the time again and decided to salvage the rest of her afternoon. She got up from the bed and collected her clothes from the floor—both in the room and the hallway—before heading upstairs to her real room to find a more comfortable outfit for working from home. Deciding on yoga pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, she went back downstairs. When she passed the spare room, she stopped. She couldn't leave the bed unmade, so she went in to straighten up. She thought better of this though, and took the sheets off to wash.

Ten minutes later, she was walking downstairs again toward the kitchen. She was going to need coffee if she expected to get any work done. But she stopped to pout when she remembered the fate of the coffee pot. "Rats," she said, glancing over to the coffee maker longingly, expecting it to look lonely without its glass companion. She brightened, surprised to see a shiny new pot where the old one used to sit.

She excitedly went over and smiled at the twelve cup pot as she took it to the sink to fill halfway with water. Then she added the appropriate amount of coffee grounds and took down a mug from the cabinet. When the comforting sound of the brewing stopped a few minutes later, she filled her cup, finally ready to get back to work. She glanced out the window over the sink, glad she was staying in, even if the snow she thought she'd smelled the previous week hadn't fallen so far. It was turning into the perfect day—for her, anyway.

As she passed the fish tank, a little gold flash caught her attention. She stopped and looked into the water. "Have we met?" she asked the fish that darted around the tank. Another energetic fish swam in the background. Frowning, she asked, "Did he bring you back to life? Or are you new?" She shook her head. "Either way, when did he find the time? No wonder he's sleep deprived."

She sat her coffee cup on the nearest lamp table and picked up the fish food to sprinkle some in the tank. "Now I want you to know," she told the fish, "if I kill you, it is not on purpose. So please don't take it personally." She picked her steaming mug back up and smiled contentedly at the happy living fish before heading down the hall to her desk.

She pulled out the articles she'd been combing through that week, ready to go over them again with new focus. This time, she wasn't looking for a needle in a haystack. She was looking for any mention of Jacob Peters and Thaddeus Black. She sat down and didn't bother stifling a large yawn before getting down to work.

She'd already skimmed several of them that morning at work after the weekly staff meeting had let out, but she had yet to find a mention of either name. As her pile of articles began to dwindle and she hadn't found either name, she thought more about the possibility of Avery investigating something she had not written before she died. Maybe there was a corrupt political boss running the whole city, like in the days of Boss Tweed, Rory mused, her cheek resting in the palm of her hand. She wondered how she was going to find out what they were up to.

"I'll have to investigate them myself," she concluded. She'd dig everything up on the councilmen she could find. It was clearly her only choice.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan read through a list of questions he'd prepared for one of his witnesses for a third time. He rubbed his forehead, scanning the page to make sure his questions started general and became more specific. Then he picked up his yellow legal pad where he had a working flow chart full of evidence and witnesses, where he would gradually extract bits of information to present to the jury in a logical order.

He paused. "Wait a minute," he muttered to himself. "I can ask leading questions." He went back to his previous list and sighed. He would have to re-think his cross-examinations now. Not wanting to use up his time tomorrow, which he'd already allotted for other tasks, he read through the testimony and underlined the parts he wanted to use. He rephrased his questions to align with his way of thinking, and sat the sheet aside again. He yawned and checked his watch.

"Shoot," he said. It was eight thirty. He sat up and stretched, glancing around the precinct—empty, with the exception of a couple detectives who were unlucky enough to be stuck with the night shift.

He wondered why Rory hadn't called to ask if he was coming home. He picked up his cell phone and dialed her. When it went to voicemail after a few rings, he sat it down and started clearing off his desk. He considered leaving his work here for the night, since it was already getting late. But he decided against it, choosing to take some of it home with him, in case he couldn't sleep or woke up early again.

When he was finished packing his things—and starting to think a brief case might be useful—his cell rang. "Hello?" he answered.

"Hey, you called?" Rory said.

"Yeah, I was just going to let you know I'm on my way home."

"Okay."

"What were you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"All day?" he asked, incredulous, as well as jealous.

"No. Just part of it," she said defensively. "I moved my work to the couch, and I had a fire going, and I drifted off."

"The conditions _do_ sound right," he said, pulling his arm through his coat sleeve and switching hands to hold the phone so he could finish putting his coat on. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Not for dinner."

"Want me to pick something up?" He haphazardly draped his scarf over his neck and picked up his files, heading for the elevator. "Pizza?"

"Okay," she said. "With pineapple."

"Pineapple pizza it is," he said, stepping into the empty lift and ending the call.

Before the elevator reached the lobby, it made a stop at the second floor, and Captain Meyer stepped in.

"Good, I caught you," the balding man said. "I wanted a word."

"Yes, sir?"

The older man glanced down at the growing stack of work for the trial Tristan was toting. "Burning the midnight oil, I see."

"Yeah," Tristan said, shifting somewhat awkwardly.

The captain suddenly pulled the emergency lever, causing the elevator to lurch to a stop.

Tristan gasped and held the side bar to steady himself as the buzzer went off. Slightly wide eyed, he looked at his boss.

"You aren't going to do this anymore," Captain Meyer told him sternly.

"Do what?"

"Two jobs."

"But—"

Meyer didn't let him talk. "You will be a detective for the NYPD, or you'll be a prosecutor for the DA's office, but you will not do both."

"Sir, I wasn't—" Tristan tried to protest.

But the other man was shaking his head. "You can't keep splitting yourself in two. Choose one," he said. "And no matter which one you choose, Gregory Jacobs will not be complaining to me about you anymore. You will throw of yourself into one job one hundred percent, and leave the other alone."

Tristan stared, speechless. He could only watch as the captain pulled the lever so the elevator would continue its descent.

When it stopped at the first floor, Captain Meyer put a hand on Tristan's shoulder, steering him out to the lobby. Before the doors closed, Meyer nodded curtly and added, "You have until the end of the trial."


End file.
